Rise of The Abandoned Husband

I stood in the main hall of the Veridia City Martial Guild, surrounded by shattered marble and the lingering scent of fear. Spencer Holt lay sprawled at my feet, his expensive suit torn, blood trickling from his mouth. The gathered martial artists watched in stunned silence as the city's most influential businessman groveled before me.

"I... I take back everything I said about you," Spencer stammered, his eyes wide with terror. "Please, Knight. Have mercy."

"Mercy?" I stepped closer, watching him flinch. "Like the mercy you showed when you tried to destroy Ashworth Industries? Or when you sent assassins after me last month?"

Spencer's face blanched. "That wasn't—"

"Save it." I cut him off with a wave of my hand. "Your schemes end today. Stay away from the Ashworths. Stay away from me. Or next time, I won't be so gentle."

I turned to leave when a slow, mocking applause echoed through the hall. Marc Fairlight emerged from the shadows, his Martial Saint robes pristine white against the destruction surrounding us.

"Impressive display, Knight," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Beating a non-cultivator. Truly the mark of a hero."

I met his gaze steadily. "If you have something to say, Fairlight, say it."

Marc circled me slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. "Everyone here knows your power is temporary. A borrowed might that will fade with time." He smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "When it does, I'll be waiting."

"Is that a threat?" I asked, keeping my voice even despite the anger bubbling inside me.

"A promise." He stepped closer. "Surrender Isabelle Ashworth to us willingly, and perhaps we'll allow you to live as our servant."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Several onlookers backed away, sensing the danger.

"Isabelle isn't property to be surrendered," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "She's under my protection. Anyone who threatens her answers to me."

Marc laughed, the sound grating like metal on stone. "Your protection? A temporary Martial Saint with borrowed techniques and no understanding of true power? You're nothing but a flash in the pan, Knight. And when your light fades—"

"Are we done here?" I interrupted, turning my back to him deliberately—a calculated insult that made several witnesses gasp.

As I walked away, Marc called after me. "The Veridia City Martial Guild has stood for ten thousand years, Knight. Men like you are forgotten within a single generation."

I didn't bother responding. His threats were nothing new, and I had more important concerns than the wounded pride of a Martial Saint.

---

"You really know how to make an entrance," Daphne Grenville said, pouring tea as we sat in her family's private garden later that afternoon. "Word of your confrontation with Spencer Holt is already spreading throughout the city."

I accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. "It wasn't about making a statement. He needed to understand the consequences of his actions."

"And Marc Fairlight?" She raised an elegant eyebrow. "Turning your back on a Martial Saint is practically unheard of."

"Fairlight is the least of my concerns right now." I took a sip of tea, letting the fragrant warmth calm my nerves. "You mentioned you could tell me about the Guardians."

Daphne settled back in her chair, studying me carefully. "You're not like other martial artists, are you? Most would be terrified after provoking someone like Fairlight."

"Fear is a luxury I can't afford." I set down my cup. "Not with what's at stake."

She nodded thoughtfully before speaking. "The Guardians are ancient beings, said to exist before the current era of cultivation. Some texts call them the Primal Ones."

"What's their connection to the Martial Saints?" I asked.

"They're the reason new Martial Saints rarely emerge," she explained. "According to legend, after the catastrophe five thousand years ago, the Guardians made a pact with the remaining Martial Saints. They would protect our world from certain threats, but in exchange, they would limit how many cultivators could reach the Saint realm."

I leaned forward. "And they enforce this how?"

"No one knows exactly." Daphne's voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "But it's said when a cultivator approaches the threshold of becoming a Martial Saint, they face a trial. Most fail and die. Some succeed but are forever changed."

This explained the mysterious barrier that so many peak masters encountered—the seemingly insurmountable gap between Master and Saint realms that few ever crossed.

"And these Guardians," I pressed, "what do they look like?"

Daphne smiled enigmatically. "Our family has an ancient portrait of one. It's been passed down for generations."

Before she could elaborate, a servant appeared at the garden entrance. "Lady Grenville, Tyler Westwood has arrived requesting an audience."

Daphne's expression shifted subtly. "Show him in."

Moments later, a tall man with copper-red hair and piercing blue eyes strode into the garden. His clothing was simple but clearly expensive, and he moved with the confident grace of a skilled cultivator.

"Daphne," he greeted with a slight bow before turning to me. "And you must be Liam Knight. Your reputation precedes you."

I stood, assessing him carefully. "Tyler Westwood. I've heard of your family's extensive collection of artifacts."

He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. "All legitimate acquisitions, I assure you. Though some might call our methods... unconventional."

"Tyler's family specializes in retrieving lost treasures from Mystic Realms," Daphne explained, gesturing for him to join us.

"Speaking of which," Tyler said, accepting a cup of tea from a servant, "I understand you've been exploring the underwater Mystic Realm recently."

My guard immediately went up. Few people knew about that expedition. "News travels fast."

"In certain circles." His eyes gleamed with interest. "Was it as dangerous as they say? I've heard rumors about spatial distortions and strange creatures guarding ancient tombs."

"Mystic Realms are always dangerous," I replied noncommittally. "But worth the risk for what they contain."

Tyler nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! Most people misunderstand what Mystic Realms truly are. They're not separate worlds or dimensions as some believe."

"What are they then?" I asked, genuinely curious despite my wariness.

"They're pockets of reality created by powerful cultivators of the past," he explained, warming to his subject. "Artificial spaces anchored to our world but existing slightly outside it. Like bubbles attached to the surface of a pond."

Daphne leaned forward. "Which is why they're unstable. When their anchors weaken..."

"They collapse," Tyler finished. "Sometimes violently. That's why finding and exploring them quickly is so important."

I considered this information. It aligned with what I'd observed but added crucial context. "And these spaces were created for what purpose?"

"Various reasons," Tyler replied. "Some as training grounds, others as treasuries or refuges during catastrophic events. A few were prisons."

"Prisons?" I repeated, thinking of Clara and the Masked Demon.

"For beings too powerful to kill but too dangerous to allow freedom," he said, his voice growing serious. "Which brings me back to your earlier question about Guardians."

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

"The Guardians are said to maintain the Path of Heaven—the route all cultivators must travel to advance to higher realms," Tyler explained. "They decide who may pass and who must turn back."

"Or who must die," Daphne added softly.

Tyler nodded. "The legends say they prevent new Martial Saints from emerging to maintain balance in our world. Too many beings of such power could tear reality itself apart."

I thought of the scrolls I'd read about the Masked Demon's rampage. "Has anyone ever seen these Guardians?"

"Few have and lived to tell about it," Tyler said. "But as Daphne mentioned, our family possesses an ancient portrait said to depict one."

"Where is this portrait now?" I asked.

"In our family's private Mystic Realm." Tyler leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine. "Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I'd like to invite you to see it."

The invitation hung in the air between us, seemingly innocent yet loaded with potential danger.

"Your family's private Mystic Realm," I repeated carefully. "And why would you extend such an invitation to someone you've just met?"

Tyler smiled disarmingly. "Your achievements have impressed many, myself included. The portrait might help you understand what you're facing as you continue to grow in power."

Daphne watched our exchange with calculating eyes, saying nothing.

"That's very generous," I said, my tone neutral while my mind raced through possibilities. Was this a trap? A genuine offer? Or something else entirely?

"Besides," Tyler continued, "I understand you have a particular interest in ancient masks and their powers. Our collection includes several texts on the subject."

My body tensed at the mention of masks. There was no way he should know about my connection to Clara's mask unless he had sources very close to me—or unless he was directly involved.

"Mr. Westwood, why don't you bring the portrait out instead, okay?" I countered, watching his reaction carefully. "I'm sure that would be more convenient for everyone."

Tyler's smile faltered slightly before returning, a bit too forced. "I'm afraid that's impossible. The portrait is bound to our Mystic Realm by ancient formations. Removing it would destroy it."

"How unfortunate," I replied, maintaining eye contact. "Perhaps another time, then."

The tension between us was palpable as Tyler nodded slowly. "Of course. The invitation remains open should you reconsider."

As he rose to leave, I couldn't help but wonder what game he was playing—and how many others had accepted similar invitations, never to return.