Ascension of the Forsaken Genius

The gates of Ardentia’s Imperial Capital loomed before Sylas, their towering metal frames adorned with intricate golden inscriptions of past rulers and great warriors. As he stepped through, the world beyond the walls opened to a spectacle unlike anything he had ever witnessed.

Wide, paved streets stretched endlessly, lined with buildings of white stone and enchanted crystal, their surfaces shimmering faintly with embedded runes of preservation. The air thrummed with a mixture of cultivation energy and the scent of exotic spices, a blend of civilization and power.

Figures of all kinds filled the streets—noble heirs in embroidered robes, armored knights bearing their house sigils, robed scholars discussing arcane theories, and wandering cultivators eyeing every movement with cautious sharpness.

Sylas, dressed in a modest dark tunic embroidered with House Aldreth’s sigil, walked with measured steps. Behind him, Sir Garrick, a Knight of Aldreth, followed in silence—a reminder that while he was of noble blood, his standing remained uncertain.

His eyes swept across the city. Unlike his older brothers and the heirs of other houses, who would be eager to announce their presence, Sylas preferred to observe from the shadows.

Here, status alone did not dictate power. Strength did.

Ardentia’s capital was divided into distinct districts, each a world of its own.

The Noble Quarters housed ducal, marquis, and count families, their estates built like miniature fortresses, each vying for dominance through sheer architectural grandeur.

The Market District was a chaotic sea of artifact merchants, alchemists selling pills that glowed with inner light, and beast tamers showcasing rare spirit creatures. A massive auction house, run by the renowned Silverleaf Trading Company, stood as the crown jewel of commerce.

The Arena & Colosseum roared with energy. Warriors clashed upon enchanted platforms, their fights projected by spirit formations for spectators to watch. This was where noble heirs tested their strength against wandering cultivators, and sect disciples settled grudges with blood.

The Grand Ardentia Academy stood in the eastern sector, its towering spires visible even from a distance. It served as the heart of knowledge, where scholars, alchemists, and aspiring cultivators trained in the arts of war and wisdom alike.

Then there was the Adventurers’ Guild, where renegade cultivators, mercenaries, and independent warriors gathered. Unlike the noble houses or sects, they owed allegiance to no one but themselves.

As Sylas walked, his mind absorbed the intricate balance of power at play.

The ducal heirs ruled with lineage and prestige.

The sect disciples held authority through raw strength and technique.

The wandering cultivators carved their own path, untethered by titles but no less dangerous.

And amidst them all, commoners who had managed to rise through sheer ability.

A sharp laugh echoed through the street, drawing his attention.

A small crowd had gathered near a well-guarded stall selling enchanted weapons, where a young man in travel-worn robes stood across from a noble heir clad in deep red silks embroidered with flames.

The noble, his fire energy radiating faintly, sneered. “I don’t know how you got in here, commoner, but this city isn’t for the likes of you.”

The traveler, clearly a wandering cultivator, merely smirked. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

The noble’s expression twisted in fury, and without another word, he struck. A burst of flame shot from his palm, roaring toward the traveler.

Yet, before it could land, a single movement cut through the air—a slash too fast for the eye to follow.

The flames were extinguished instantly.

The crowd fell into stunned silence. Even the noble heir took a step back, his face pale as the cultivator’s blade rested lightly against his throat.

The traveler tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Still think power comes from bloodline alone?”

The noble heir swallowed hard, then turned and fled into the Noble Quarters without another word.

Sylas watched, his mind racing.

This encounter had just proven a crucial truth—status could dictate opportunities, but in the end, strength reigned supreme.

His gaze lingered on the wandering cultivator as he sheathed his blade and disappeared into the streets. A name to remember. A potential future asset.

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By the time the sun began to sink behind the horizon, Sylas had mapped out the key players in his mind.

At the colosseum, he had glimpsed Adrian Galveric, a brutal combatant, effortlessly breaking his opponent’s arm as a lesson.

At the marketplace, he had seen Selene Valen, a daughter of a Count, gathering a group of noble-born young women and subtly manipulating alliances with mere words.

And in the noble quarters, Lucien Deren, the silver-haired heir of Marquis Deren, had been issuing open challenges to any cultivator who dared to look him in the eye.

Everyone was positioning themselves for the Grand Banquet.

Power, reputation, and alliances would all be decided within those halls.

Sylas exhaled slowly, his mind sharpening like a blade.

If he couldn’t participate in the Grand Selection, then he would learn everything.

He would watch, listen, and prepare.

Because one day, when the moment was right, he would turn the tables on them all.