The Exalt [Cultivation Fantasy]

Deep into the afternoon, overwhelming sunlight beamed and poured out onto the mansion as the two suns, surrounded by a host of clouds, rose unfettered and reached their utmost peak. Only a peaceful venture could complement a beautiful, hot day. Perhaps eating some cold, sweet desserts under the shade while resting on a cool, smooth boulder and listening to the soft breezes whispering in his ears was the best idea. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Auren laughed weakly at the people surrounding him, their hateful, bloodshot gazes seeming to want to tear him apart.

"Get lost! I have no intention of paying your ridiculous fee!" Rather than the soft breeze he hoped for, an enraged roar burst into his ears, ringing across his head. Auren sweated more from the rising pressure of a Lower Marshal Exalt than the radiant suns. Gripping his arms together, he exhaled in large volumes, trying to calm his nerves and regain control of his pounding chest. He glanced at the figure standing before him, opposing the enraged Marshal Exalt, and smirked widely.

His sworn older brother, Marcus, the first of them all, crossed his arms and sighed heavily, clearly annoyed. "I haven't spoken a word yet, and you brought out your entire clan to greet me. Then you spout your rejections without hearing me out. This is a mighty poor showing of yourself, leader of the Falk Clan." Garbed in a white suit and a white coat that reached his feet, Marcus tied his long blonde hair behind his head, letting a single ponytail flow to his waist.

'Marcus is so cool!' Auren cheered silently in his thoughts, careful not to further antagonize the Falk members already gnashing their teeth at his sworn brother's words. He looked around and balled his hands into fists under his overly long and wide sleeves, eager to see properly this time. Many times, he witnessed the same scenario unfold where they rejected his good brother's proposal, and it all ended in the exact same way: being beaten to an utter pulp and forced to comply.

"There is no reason to hear our your words. News travels fast. My old friends and allies all warned me of how they lost to you and other intruders. The Falks are a free clan! We will never submit!" The Falk leader, an elderly man, shouted. Looking at him, Auren could only describe his features as old. He was short, bald, and leaning on a walking stick. His eyes were a dull gray, with little life left in them, and a long white beard grew down to the ground. Admirably, he still chose defiance against his brother, Marcus, but it was an unwise decision.

"Negotiating is always a horrid task. I wonder why he wants to grant them a choice. Very well, leader of the Falk Clan." Marcus took off his white coat, tossing it to Auren, revealing a small black dagger fastened on his belt. He folded the coat neatly and held it as Marcus walked slowly, each step silencing the rowdy Falks. They paled the more his sworn brother strode, a simple menacing stroll. Stopping, Marcus turned to Auren and warned, "Close your eyes, Auren. You're not ready to witness this battle."

"That's what you said earlier as well!" Auren stomped on the courtyard cobblestone.

"You're only sixteen years old. And it won't do your training any good to watch. The aftermath will strike your mindset, harming your talents. Remember what the Lord advised. Now close your eyes." Marcus glanced at him, the almond-shaped blue eyes offering no compromise, only accepting his dutiful agreement. Remembering the Lord's words, Auren nodded, grumbling about the unfairness, and shut his eyes. Everyone cared for him, a fact he was glad to know and receive every day, but a part of him churned in anger at his special disposition that warranted their care.

"If I win, you Falks must pay the tribute of 500,000 gold every month, not a single coin less. If you fail to meet the payment for a month, I'll crush your clan and place another on your empty seat, a more obedient one." Marcus threatened, his voice clear in the darkness. "It's only 500,000 gold, a simple task for a clan of your stature and resources."

"Arrogant fool! The likes of you will never bring down our Falk Clan's hundreds of years of history!" The Falk leader raised his voice, pride laced in his words. Confused, Auren wondered if those hundreds of years were worth boasting about when their clan leader was simply a weak and old Lower Marshal Exalt with a Grade Four Exolsia. According to what he learned, the Falks was a fallen clan from another land, driven away by their declining bloodline until settling here, where they plateaued at giving birth to lower-end Exolsias. Wasn't it arrogance to believe that once-glorious history still mattered in the decaying present?

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Shaking his head, he wanted to open his eyes so badly. In the darkness, he could still hear the sounds of battle. The Falk leader's rushed breaths blew louder than the great gales he passed through on an airship. The strained gasps and shouts mingled with their clash's powerful thunderous noises. Still, his sworn brother never made a sound, ever stoic and calm, and after a heavy sound of a powerful blow, the elder crashed to the floor. Ultimately, the Falk leader shouted for his clan to fight together, and their collective warcries scared him to jump.

However, their brave shouts quickly diminished into pained groans and coughs. Countless sounds of bones being broken, cracked to a pulp, and the clattering of a body hitting stone resounded in the courtyard. Marcus spoke once more, "Auren, open your eyes."

Following his sworn brother's command, Auren greeted the light sweeping across his pupils as the world resumed in his sight. He peered around, mouth gaping in awe. Several people had been lodged into the floor, half their bodies buried in the stone. A good amount leaned against the mansion walls, craters of cracks spreading from their backs. As he thought, no one could hope to defeat his sworn brother. Marcus had the Falk leader under his foot, the weak elder gasping and struggling for air, but his power could not free him.

"Now, do you yield, or should I massacre your clan right now?" Marcus slowly put more force into his foot, and the Falk leader gargled on the blood rising from his throat.

The Falk leader nodded, crying, "I will pay the monthly fee. Please spare my clan."

"As long as you keep paying the tribute, your clan will be free to do as they please. Now pay up." Marcus held out a hand. The Falk leader waved a servant over and ordered them to gather the gold, a silence imposing on the ruined courtyard while they waited for the servant to return. Some of the Falks started to recover and moved to help the others, but none dared to stare at him or Marcus. Patiently, they waited, and the servant finally returned, carrying a large bag.

Auren received the sack and counted the coins inside. Every single coin was accounted for. He stowed it away in his space pocket and leaped toward his sworn brother, who grabbed the collar of his shirt and soared into the air. Below, the aggrieved and helpless looks of the Falks bid him farewell, a scene he knew too often from the other territories. Auren sipped from a bottle, enjoying the refreshing, cold water, and passed the rest to Marcus. "How was the fight?"

"Utterly useless. The Falk leader overestimated his abilities." Marcus scoffed. "There's not a single good fight in this land. I wonder why our Lord wished for us to settle here?"

"Why don't you ask him when he returns? You're the first, after all." Auren chuckled, earning a flick to his forehead, forcing a pained yelp to erupt from his lungs. Rubbing his red forehead, Auren complained the entire way back, his brown eyes gleaming in delight at the ruins beneath them. It was a terrible wasteland of broken homes and junk, like rusted airships from many years ago, dotting the shoreline. However, this was where everyone was, so it was home.

"Marcus and Auren? So the two of you have returned. How did it go in the remaining five territories?" A tall, lanky man greeted them whimsically as if a slight breeze might drown out his words, a shrub of curly green hair resembling a bush resting on his head. His neck was as long as a swan's, and his arms and legs reached unbelievable lengths. His face was narrow with a flat nose, almost like a fish's. A pair of black fish-like eyes locked onto them.

"Brother Santen! Is everyone here?" Auren leaped off Marcus's hold, ignoring the exclaims of worry, and landed in Santen's arms, still a few feet away as he was held at arm's length. Santen, the third of them all, laughed strangely, a series of rapid chortling clicks forcing Auren to hold his hands to his ears, unnerved by the power in the laughter.

"All of them have paid their tributes. We only need to wait for his return to report the good news." Marcus untied his blonde hair, freeing them to the breeze.

"Oh, then you're in luck. The Lord returned several hours ago and is waiting for all of us inside." Santen let out that unsettling laughter again.

"Ah! Really?! We need to run inside!" Auren rushed ahead, smiling from ear to ear, excited to see the Lord again. Inside the small ruined house, everyone had gathered in the small living room, sitting on the dusty floor with not even a table to lean on. He halted and bowed to the man pouring out gold coins from the pile of sacks in the corner, his back facing the entrance. The powerful figure who rescued him from the dark prisons of that horrid lab had his hood down, showing the paladin's helmet. A stag's head rested on his shoulder, the antlers extending outward in an intimidating stance.

"Greetings! Lord Draven!" Auren shouted and knocked his head on the floor.

"Oh? You're back. Then make your report." Lord Draven turned around and rested his white sword on the floor. "Have you accomplished what I sent you all to do in my absence?"

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