Zafira, Underlord of the West

Beyond the endless dunes and jagged ridges of the western frontier lay a bastion of steel and ambition—a hidden outpost standing at the edge of civilization. A place of trade, refuge, and unseen dealings.

This was no grand city, no gilded empire of courts and politics. It was a waystation of necessity, a lawless borderland where gold and power spoke louder than names. Merchants came to barter. Mercenaries sought employment. Smugglers whispered secrets behind closed doors. And above it all, deep within its fortified heart, the great engine was being built.

From the worn stone paths leading to its gates to the towering scaffolds surrounding its core, the outpost thrived in organized chaos. Every brick, every beam of steel was another step toward something greater—a machine unlike any the world had seen before. A creation that would either forge a new era or be lost to the sands of time.

And at its center, seated within a dimly lit chamber lined with maps and ledgers, Zafira al-Rahim ruled.

No deal was made, no caravan moved, no war erupted without her knowing. Her spies were not merely paid informants—they were merchants, beggars, scholars, soldiers. They were everyone and no one.

The latest reports lay before her, scattered across a worn oak table. Prices of rare alchemical reagents fluctuating in the east. A war brewing between two sects in the north threatening trade routes. A noble family in the empire purchasing vast quantities of refined steel. The emperor’s scholars seeking rare metals for something undisclosed.

And then, the most curious report of all—the Silver Lotus Sect had chosen to resist.

Zafira's eyes flickered with interest. The Silver Lotus Sect, a name that once commanded respect, had been a crumbling relic for decades. Its disciples were few, its resources dwindling, and worst of all—it had no successor worthy of its name.

Lin Wuye, the current sect leader, was a man respected for his wisdom, not his strength. A father before a warrior, a teacher before a ruler. He had spent more time nurturing his disciples' minds than sharpening their blades. His decision to lead with compassion rather than fear had left the sect vulnerable, a lamb amongst wolves.

For years, their decline had been predictable, their fate seemingly sealed. But now… resistance? Why?

Zafira tapped a finger against the parchment. This was not the behavior of a dying sect. Something—or someone—had changed the equation.

The emergence of a new leader? A secret alliance? A weapon, perhaps? No, too sudden. There had to be a catalyst, a shift that had reignited the embers of defiance in a sect that had long been written off.

A calculated smile curled her lips. "Interesting."

She traced a gloved finger over the parchment, reading it once, twice. A slow, calculating smile curled upon her lips. "Interesting."

A figure knelt before her, head bowed low. "The message was delivered as requested."

Zafira leaned back in her chair, eyes half-lidded. "And the one who sent it?"

The spy hesitated. "Unknown. The message changed hands several times before reaching us."

Zafira’s smile thinned. Clever. Someone didn’t want her knowing who pulled the strings.

"And yet," she mused, tapping a finger against the parchment, "it still found its way to me. How very considerate."

She let the thought settle, filing it away. If someone wished to obscure their involvement, that meant there was more at play than a simple sect extermination.

But she would uncover the truth in time. She always did.

She shifted her attention back to the table, where a second report lay—a list of materials requested by Emery Voss. Sulfur, saltpeter, refined steel, precision instruments. The foundation of something grander than war, if his theories held.

From the far end of the chamber, beyond the columns draped in silk and reinforced steel, Emery was hunched over a workbench, etching calculations into papers and his quill. His brow furrowed as he muttered under his breath, adjusting his sketches—schematics of a weapon unlike anything this world had seen before.

"Your materials are being arranged," Zafira called to him without looking up.

Emery barely acknowledged her, his focus unwavering. "Good. The refining process will take time. Precision is everything."

She glanced at him, amused. "I thought you only concerned yourself with discovery. Since when did you care about precision in war?"

Emery finally turned, adjusting his spectacles. "Discovery without precision is nothing but wasted potential. Besides…" His eyes flickered to the discarded message on her table. "If war is inevitable, I’d rather not let brutes like Shen Mu dictate how it unfolds."

Zafira tilted her head slightly. He had heard. He observed me through the smallest movement. He was always listening, always thinking. Always putting pieces together.

She smiled. "So tell me, scholar. If Shen Mu is playing his game, and the Silver Lotus Sect refuses to fall… what do you think happens next?"

Emery exhaled, glancing back at his notes. "That depends," he murmured. "On who truly holds the pieces."

His fingers drummed against the wooden surface of his workbench as his mind began weaving through the possibilities. Why now?

The Silver Lotus Sect had been in decline for years. A failing sect with no prodigal successors and no great warriors to their name. Their leader, Lin Wuye, was no tactician, no warlord—merely a scholar who had clung to old ideals for far too long. If Shen Mu’s forces had already been pressuring them, then logically, surrender or retreat would have been their best options. And yet… they resisted.

Was there an outside influence? Another faction backing them? No, the sect had been isolated for too long, with no known allies willing to stake their own standing for a dying cause. A new benefactor? Possible, but unlikely. A sudden breakthrough in cultivation? No, power did not come overnight.

Which meant—something changed internally.

His mind cycled through the possible catalysts.

A hidden expert resurfacing? Unlikely. There were no known grandmasters from the Silver Lotus Sect who had vanished rather than perished. A forbidden technique, a final gamble? That would be a desperate move, but not an impossible one. His mind, however, did not stop there. His thoughts drifted, shifting gears from war to something more fundamental—resources, sustainability. If war was inevitable, then supplies would be paramount. He glanced at the scattered parchments on his workbench, the cost calculations, the sheer amount of leather and silk being consumed for record-keeping alone.

His fingers tapped absently against the desk as he stared at the scattered parchments before him. The ink smudges on his fingers, the half-dried quill lying discarded at the edge of his workbench—it was inefficient, frustrating. Knowledge was meant to be recorded, refined, expanded upon. Yet here he was, confined by the limitations of ink and paper, constantly rewriting entire sections when a simple correction was needed.

"This is absurd," he muttered. "There has to be a better way."

Zafira, watching him with idle amusement, arched a brow. "Why the sudden fuss?."

Emery reached for a piece of charcoal, rolling it between his fingers. "Paper is fragile. Ink is permanent. Corrections are messy, and rewriting information over and over again is a waste of time and resources. What if there was a way to record knowledge temporarily—something reusable, something that doesn’t require endless stacks of parchment?"

He sketched a quick design on the table, his movements precise and calculated. "A slate board—coated in a fine layer of dust or mineral-based residue. Write with a chalk-like substance, erase with a simple cloth. It would allow for rapid note-taking, teaching, calculations—without the need for ink or wasted parchment."

Zafira’s fingers stilled against the parchment she had been idly tracing. Her business-minded intuition flared. "You mean to tell me that all this time, scholars have been wasting resources because no one has thought to use something temporary for writing?"

Emery smirked slightly. "No one has needed to. Until now. But if I can refine the process—find the right materials, ensure durability—it could change everything. Education, engineering, logistics... even military strategy."

Zafira leaned forward slightly, her gaze calculating. "And can you do it?"

Emery adjusted his glasses, his mind already spinning through the possibilities. "Given the right minerals and a stable surface? Of course. The only question is how long it will take to perfect."

Zafira exhaled, then let out a low, knowing chuckle. "And here I thought you were just a scholar obsessed with weapons. Turns out, you might be the most dangerous man in this room."

Emery said nothing, only smirking slightly as he returned to his sketches. The world was on the brink of war, and he was about to change it—not with swords or cultivation, but with the stroke of chalk on slate.

Emery's mind is always running and right now he is thinking again about the Silver Lotus situation.

The Silver Lotus Sect. A failing sect, a weak leader, a history of steady decline—none of it made sense. Why now? Why resist?

He exhaled sharply, adjusting his spectacles. Cultivation, as far as he was concerned, was little more than glorified mysticism. People claimed to refine 'qi' and comprehend the 'Dao,' but at the end of the day, strength was determined by the same rules governing everything else—biology, physics, strategy. The strongest warriors were the ones with discipline, knowledge, and the ability to adapt. No divine forces, no fate, just cause and effect.

And yet, here they were, dealing with a sect that should have already crumbled yet had chosen to stand its ground. The logical part of his mind rejected the idea of some 'miraculous resurgence.' There had to be something tangible behind it. Was it a last desperate act? Or had something truly changed?

His fingers tapped against the table as he considered the possibilities. A sudden shift in leadership was the most plausible. But leaders did not appear out of thin air, especially not in a sect on the verge of ruin. If someone had stepped forward, that meant they had power—not necessarily cultivation, but influence, intelligence, or the ability to make others believe in them.

A tactician? A war strategist? He scoffed at the notion. Such a mind would have been noticed long before now. Unless...

Unless they had been underestimated. Hidden in plain sight.

His smirk faded slightly. If that were the case, then the Crimson Serpent Sect might be walking into something far more dangerous than they anticipated.

Emery shook his head. "People don't change overnight. And sects don't rise from the ashes without reason. Keep an eye on them, Zafira. See who comes out on top. That will tell us everything we need to know."