While my subordinates continued their work—mining deep into the Lava Lands, erecting fortresses of stone and obsidian, carving roads through molten terrain, and locking down every strategic choke point—I allowed myself to step away from rulership for a time.
Administration bored me.
Power did not.
I left my castle under layers of wards and loyal oversight and slipped through space itself, folding distance until the world reassembled around me in a place steeped in old magic and unfinished death.
Yang's Temple.
The moment my boots touched the ancient stone floor, I felt it.
Cold.
Not the absence of heat, but the presence of something that should not exist. The air was thick with resentment, sorrow, and rage—emotions so old they had crystallized into something almost tangible. Ghostly energy clung to the walls, the pillars, the very silence of the temple.
Spirits.
Dozens of them.
They watched me.
I could feel their attention like needles against my skin, their half-formed awareness brushing against my wards and recoiling instinctively. They knew, even without understanding why, that I was not prey.
I smiled faintly.
Ghosts were dangerous to the unprepared. Intangible. Relentless. Immune to conventional force.
But I was not unprepared.
I let a fragment of my power slip free, just enough for the temple to feel it. Runes ignited beneath my feet, etched into the stone by my will alone. The air vibrated as a spirit-destruction matrix unfolded invisibly, its geometry designed not to banish—but to erase.
The ghosts recoiled.
Some screamed.
Others simply fled, dissolving into wisps of pale energy that evaporated on contact with my spellwork. Those that remained hovered at a cautious distance, their hostility dampened by fear.
Good.
I walked deeper into the temple, unhurried, my footsteps echoing far louder than they should have. At the center of the structure, where the spiritual pressure was thickest, I finally felt him.
Master Yang.
Or what remained of him.
He manifested slowly, his ghostly form coalescing from the ambient energy like mist forced into shape. His expression was twisted—part anger, part arrogance, part desperation. He floated just above the ground, arms folded, eyes glowing faintly.
"So," Yang said, his voice echoing unnaturally. "Another intruder seeking secrets beyond their worth."
I tilted my head slightly, studying him the way one might examine a flawed artifact. "You mistake me for someone who seeks permission."
His eyes narrowed. "This is my temple. My domain. You will leave, or you will join the others."
I raised one hand.
The temperature dropped instantly.
Sigils of annihilation flared into existence around my fingers—ancient, forbidden constructs designed specifically to target spiritual matrices. Not banishment. Not sealing.
Destruction.
Yang felt it immediately. His form flickered, destabilizing for just a fraction of a second.
That was all the reaction I needed.
"Let us be very clear," I said calmly. "I know spells that do not merely destroy ghosts. They unravel the concept of you. No afterlife. No echo. No memory. Just absence."
I took a step closer.
"Now," I continued, my voice still even, "you are going to speak politely. And then you are going to give me what I came for."
Yang's expression shifted—anger giving way to calculation. He had been a master once. He recognized superior force when he saw it.
"You threaten me in my own temple," he hissed.
"I threaten you everywhere," I replied. "This temple merely makes it easier."
There was a long pause.
Then Yang laughed bitterly. "You want the scroll," he said. "The Airjitzu Scroll."
I did not deny it.
"That technique was forbidden for a reason," Yang continued. "It binds the soul to the wind. It erodes the self. Even I paid a price for it."
I smiled, cold and sharp. "I have paid greater prices for lesser power."
Yang studied me in silence, searching for doubt, fear, hesitation.
He found none.
With a snarl of frustration, he gestured. A compartment in the temple wall slid open, ancient mechanisms groaning as they moved. Within, preserved by wards and spiritual energy, rested a single scroll—old parchment wrapped around a core of enchanted wood.
The Airjitzu Scroll.
I reached out, my magic surrounding it gently, testing for traps, curses, spiritual bindings. There were many. Clever ones, too. Yang had not been careless.
They unraveled anyway.
One by one, the enchantments collapsed under my scrutiny, peeled away like rotting layers of paint. The scroll floated into my hand, warm with contained power, humming softly as if aware it had changed owners.
Yang watched, silent now.
"You will regret this," he said at last. "Power always demands payment."
I turned to face him fully, the scroll secured. "I do not regret inevitabilities. I prepare for them."
I paused, then added, almost kindly, "Remain here. Haunt your temple. Cling to what little authority you think you still possess."
My eyes glowed faintly.
"Or test me again—and cease to exist."
I opened a portal without waiting for his response, the air tearing open into swirling darkness. As I stepped through, I felt Yang's presence withdraw, retreating deeper into the temple's spiritual shadows.
Wise.
The portal sealed behind me, and Yang's Temple vanished from view.
I was already examining the scroll in my mind, analyzing its structure, its risks, its potential.
Wind-bound movement. Spiritual propulsion. Soul-as-vector.
Dangerous.
But extraordinarily useful.
Another piece acquired.
Another step closer to absolute dominance.