Rise of The Abandoned Husband

I stood in the vast entrance hall of the Veridia City Martial Guild, my two undead guardians flanking me like silent sentinels. The minutes stretched on as we waited for Emerson's return. My divine sense remained alert, carefully monitoring the energy signatures throughout the building. There were powerful cultivators here—far more than I had anticipated.

Vernon and Haydyn remained perfectly still beside me. To anyone watching, they might have appeared to be extremely disciplined bodyguards, but their unnaturally perfect posture and vacant eyes would reveal the truth to anyone who looked closely enough.

Finally, a door opened at the far end of the hall. Emerson returned, followed by a tall man with silver-streaked black hair and piercing eyes that seemed to calculate my worth with a single glance. I recognized him immediately from descriptions I'd heard: Darian Bancroft, President of the Veridia City Martial Guild.

"This is impossible," Bancroft muttered to Emerson as they approached. "Knight couldn't possibly be foolish enough to walk into our headquarters."

Emerson gestured toward me with his uninjured hand. "See for yourself."

Bancroft's eyes narrowed as they settled on me. "Liam Knight," he said, his voice carrying across the hall. "I've heard much about you."

"Likewise," I replied coolly. "Though I doubt either of us has heard anything good."

A thin smile stretched across his face. "I must admit, I'm curious what brings you here. Most men with a price on their head avoid the very people hunting them."

"I came to negotiate," I said simply.

This drew a laugh from Bancroft. "Negotiate? You're in no position to negotiate anything." His gaze shifted to Vernon and Haydyn. "And what are these... creatures you've brought with you?"

"My Protectors," I answered. "They're here to ensure our conversation remains civil."

Bancroft studied them more closely, and I could see the moment recognition dawned in his eyes. He understood what they were, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered across his face.

"Necromancy is forbidden by Guild law," he said carefully. "The punishment is death."

"I'm already scheduled for execution according to your Guild," I replied. "Hard to threaten a man who's already condemned."

More Guild members had begun to gather at the edges of the hall, drawn by the confrontation. I counted at least a dozen purple-robed cultivators—the elite of their ranks. They formed a loose circle around us, maintaining a cautious distance.

"What exactly do you wish to negotiate?" Bancroft asked, his voice becoming more businesslike.

"It's quite simple," I said. "Release Isabelle Ashworth, and I'll let you live."

The hall went silent for a moment, then erupted in laughter. Bancroft's shoulders shook as he joined his subordinates in their mirth.

"You'll let me live?" he repeated incredulously. "You walk into the heart of the most powerful organization in Veridia with two puppets, and you threaten me?"

I remained impassive. "They're not puppets. They're Protectors. And yes, that's my offer."

Bancroft's amusement faded, replaced by cold anger. "You are either insane or suicidal. Perhaps both." He turned to the purple-robed cultivators. "Kill him. Bring me his head."

Three of the purple-robed cultivators stepped forward, confidence evident in their movements. I didn't move, didn't flinch. Instead, I whispered a single command.

"George, kill them."

Vernon—now George—moved with shocking speed. Before the first attacker could even draw his weapon, George was upon him. His hand shot out, gripping the man's skull with inhuman strength. The cultivator barely had time to scream before George squeezed, and his head burst like overripe fruit.

Blood sprayed across the polished floor as the body crumpled. The remaining attackers froze, shock evident on their faces. That hesitation cost them their lives.

George pivoted, moving with the fluid grace of a dancer despite his massive frame. He seized one cultivator by the throat with each hand, lifting them effortlessly off the ground. Their struggles were futile. With a sharp twist, he snapped their necks simultaneously, the sound like dry branches breaking in the sudden silence of the hall.

Three bodies lay on the floor, three elite cultivators dispatched in less than five seconds. George turned back to me, his expression unchanged as he ripped the golden cores from the bodies and presented them to me in his bloodied hands.

"Thank you, George," I said calmly, taking the cores and pocketing them.

The remaining Guild members had backed away, horror evident in their eyes. Even Bancroft had taken several steps back, his face pale.

"Now," I said, my voice cutting through the stunned silence. "Shall we negotiate again? Or would you like to sacrifice more of your men?"

Bancroft's composure returned slowly, his eyes calculating as he reassessed the situation. "Impressive," he admitted. "But these parlor tricks won't save you." He turned to the remaining purple-robed cultivators. "Stand down for now."

He faced me again, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. "Let's say I was interested in your... negotiation. What guarantee do I have that you'll keep your word?"

"The same guarantee I have that you'll keep yours," I replied. "None. But I'm not leaving without Isabelle, and you've seen what my Protectors can do."

"Yes, your Protectors." Bancroft's gaze shifted to George. "Tell me, warrior, why do you serve this man? The Veridia City Martial Guild offers much better compensation for talents such as yours."

I almost laughed at his attempt to recruit my undead guardian. "He can't answer you," I explained. "His loyalty is absolute."

"Is it?" Bancroft's smile returned, more dangerous than before. "Everyone has their price. Even the dead, it seems."

He reached into his robes and withdrew a gleaming object—a ruler made of what appeared to be jade, but it pulsed with an inner light that hurt my eyes to look at directly.

"Do you know what this is, Knight?" he asked, holding it up. "This is the Prajna Ruler, a Martial Saint Weapon. One of only seven in existence."

I felt a pressure emanate from the object, a crushing weight that seemed to press down on my divine sense. Even George and Haydyn took an involuntary step back.

"I've heard of it," I replied, fighting to keep my voice steady. "The weapon of a dead god, supposedly."

"Not supposedly," Bancroft corrected. "Definitely. And with it, I could obliterate you and your puppets with a single thought." He caressed the ruler lovingly. "But that would be wasteful. I'm curious about you, Knight. Where did you learn to create such servants? Who taught you?"

I maintained my composure despite the suffocating pressure of the Martial Saint Weapon. "No one taught me. I figured it out myself."

Bancroft laughed. "Impossible. This is ancient knowledge, forbidden knowledge. Someone must have guided you."

"Believe what you want," I said. "But my offer stands. Isabelle for your life."

"You still don't understand your position, do you?" Bancroft shook his head in mock disappointment. "Very well. Perhaps a demonstration is in order."

He raised the Prajna Ruler, pointing it directly at George. "Let's see how your Protector fares against true power."

The ruler began to glow brighter, its jade surface becoming translucent, revealing complex patterns within. The pressure in the room increased tenfold, and I felt my divine sense being squeezed, as if caught in an invisible vise.

"Last chance," I warned. "I came here to negotiate, not to fight."

"Negotiation requires leverage," Bancroft replied coldly. "And you have none."

He roared a command, and the Prajna Ruler unleashed its power. A blinding light erupted from the weapon, carrying with it an overwhelmingly pure Martial Saint Aura that pressed down on George like a physical weight.

My undead guardian stood his ground, but I could sense the strain on our connection. The divine sense I had invested in him was being systematically crushed by the weapon's power. If this continued, George would be destroyed—and a significant portion of my own power with him.

The fate of my mission—and Isabelle—hung in the balance as Bancroft's weapon battled against my Protector. I had gambled everything on this confrontation, and now I was facing a power far beyond what I had anticipated.

The blinding light from the Prajna Ruler filled the hall, making it impossible to see what was happening to George. All I could do was hold my ground and pray that my Protector was as resilient as I believed him to be.