The deafening, vacuum-like whoosh intensified, a hungry roar that swallowed all sound. The True Ascension Gate, now a gaping maw of blinding radiance, pulsed with an irresistible suction. Disciples shrieked, their shouts thin against the tearing wind as they, along with splintering stone and uprooted pavilion roofs, were yanked skyward. Targen’s skin felt like a forge, the crimson cracks spreading across his gilded form. Sixty seconds. The countdown burned in his thoughts, absolute and unforgiving. He watched a terrified junior disciple, barely old enough to wield a training blade, tumble past him, limbs flailing. Targen’s core shuddered. This raw, untamed force, born of his own desperate ascension, was tearing apart the very realm he sought to leave. A flicker of his usual boundless compassion, even in this dire moment, asserted itself. He couldn't leave behind a shattered world. With a strained grunt, Targen extended both palms. His Sovereign form, though wavering, still held immense power. He didn't push against the vortex; he gently *guided* it. A faint, intricate pattern of shimmering saffron light spread from his hands, weaving itself into the chaotic currents. He wasn't stopping the suction, but rather, he was smoothing its edges, directing its destructive potential. The wild, indiscriminate tear of the gate softened, becoming a focused, upward flow. Disciples, previously tumbling head over heels, found themselves gently lifted, their trajectories straightened, directed away from jagged debris and towards the edge of the celestial current, where they could drift clear. Oyun, her elaborate robes now tattered, screamed as she was caught in the upward surge. Her face, usually composed, was a mask of terror. She clutched frantically at a crumbling stone railing, her cultivation base, weakened by Targen's earlier face-slap, too feeble to resist. The swirling current, now neatly channeled by Targen, swept around her. He hadn't meant to, but his gentle redirection sent her spiraling, not into the orderly upward flow, but veering sharply. With a final, choked cry, she plummeted, landing with a pathetic splash in the deepest, foulest mud pit at the base of the arena, stripped of her dignity, her prestige, and quite likely, her remaining self-respect. Targen ignored the distant, spluttering curses. His attention was solely on the searing heat. The sixty-second timer was now forty-five. His Sovereign outline had faded toward dim starlight, threatening to dissipate. He had to go. Now. He turned to Sarnai, who stood remarkably steady amidst the chaos, her jaw set hard beneath wide eyes. She had fought fiercely to shield his flanks, her silver hair disheveled while her glare remained lethal. She was holding Pogo, who, despite the apocalyptic scene, was happily gnawing on a discarded fragment of a spirit stone, his cloud-weaving fur bristling with static. “Sarnai-jii,” Targen said, his voice a strained whisper, barely audible over the roaring gate. “I am truly sorry. I believe I have inadvertently ruined your career in the mortal realm. This… this wasn't exactly the quiet rise I had in mind.” Sarnai blinked, a slow, deliberate movement. Her lips thinned. “You think *that* is what you’ve ruined?” she snarled, then took a steadying breath. “We are standing on the precipice of oblivion because of your accidental politeness, and you’re worried about my promotion prospects?” Pogo, sensing the emotional tension, chittered. With a surprising burst of speed, the pangolin launched himself from Sarnai’s arms. He landed squarely on Targen’s back, then, using his sturdy tail, delivered a forceful shove. Targen, already at the precipice of detonation, lost his footing. He tumbled forward, Sarnai, still holding his arm from her earlier defense, dragged along with him. Together, they plunged into the blinding light of the True Ascension Gate. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colors, a searing, all-encompassing light that pressed against Targen's very being. It felt like being stretched, refined, and then compressed a thousand times over. The countdown, a furious twenty seconds, vanished. The searing heat in his veins, the internal combustion, it all… faded. The oppressive gravity, the limitations of the mortal realm, released their hold. A profound, ethereal calm settled over him. They didn't land so much as gently settle. Targen found himself lying on something impossibly soft, yet firm, that glowed with a pale amber luminescence. He opened his eyes. Above him, a sky of brilliant azure stretched endlessly, dotted with luminous, drifting motes of light. Beneath him, ivory clouds, solid enough to walk on, shimmered like spun silk. A gentle breeze, smelling of ozone and starlight, caressed his face. His body felt… whole. No cracks, no instability. The chaotic draconic blood was no longer a ticking bomb but a stable, vibrant warmth in his core. He had ascended. Beside him, Sarnai let out a long, drawn-out groan. She pushed herself up, her silver hair now even more disarrayed, strands clinging to her face. She looked furious, exhausted, and utterly bewildered. “Targen,” she rasped, her voice rough, “as soon as I can properly breathe without the taste of ozone in my mouth, I am going to murder you. Slowly. For turning my entire life into a cosmic joke.” Pogo, having landed gracefully on Targen’s chest, yawned, then began to groom his whiskers. Jochi, sounding remarkably clear-headed for once, echoed in Targen’s mind, “*This* is more like it. A proper domain. Now, about that celebratory vintage…” Targen sat up, feeling a lightness he hadn't experienced since before the crimson tear. He spotted a figure drifting lazily past on a cloud a short distance away. The being was regal, clad in robes woven from starlight, their features sharp with an otherworldly beauty. They radiated an aura of immense power, a familiar, distant arrogance in their posture. Targen smiled, a genuine, untroubled expression. He waved a hand. “Excuse me, honored Immortal!” he called out, his voice clear and untroubled in the luminous air. “Might you know of a reputable establishment nearby? My… associate… has a rather discerning palate for fine spirits.” The immortal, who had been idly admiring their own shimmering fingernails, paused. Their gaze, cold and disdainful, swept over Targen’s slightly rumpled robes and Sarnai’s battle-worn appearance. A sneer, ancient and perfectly cultivated, touched their lips. “A tavern?” the immortal scoffed, their voice echoing with patronizing amusement. “You believe *this* realm has mere taverns, mortal? Clearly, you have strayed far from your proper station.” Their eyes narrowed, a glint of familiar, dismissive cruelty in their depths. “And you, *ascended*? Impossible. You look like a pauper. Who let you through?”

Upward Mobility