Kaelren awoke before the pain-siren screamed.
The stone lantern in his new tent still glowed faintly with blue runes, casting pale shadows over the interior. He didn't feel fresh—far from it—but the bruising ache that had plagued him the night before had faded to a dull thrum. His body had healed more than it should have in a single night.
He sat up slowly, eyes narrowing.
His limbs felt heavier, but stronger. His skin, tighter. His muscles thrummed with a low, humming ache — not from exhaustion, but from renewal. The Gene Refinement Sutra hadn't stopped when he collapsed. It had kept running, working through his broken tissues while he slept.
Does it run more efficiently while I'm unconscious? he wondered. Or was I just that broken yesterday?
Whatever the case, it had worked.
He was stronger.
He stood, shifted his weight, and felt the resistance in his bones. The burn was lighter now, but the power was real.
Body Tempering Realm, Stage 3.
The advance had happened without ceremony, but the results were unmistakable.
His black tail flicked lazily behind him.
He looked at it for a long moment.
Is it the Sutra? Or... the beast blood?
Everyone with beast blood in Camp 12 had some animal trait—fangs, claws, colored pupils. His tail made it obvious. If Dren's serum had worked, he would've had something too, maybe tiger-striped skin or feline eyes.
Kaelren's thoughts lingered on that. He had always wondered how much of his growth came from training—and how much came from whatever genetic fire was burning in his blood.
Still, whatever the answer, he intended to sharpen both.
He pulled the Qi scroll from its hiding place and sat cross-legged.
The Qi Cultivation scroll wasn't ornate. It was rough, written in an old, cracked dialect and sealed with dust, not power.
But it held knowledge.
He read every line, visualized every breath, memorized every channel and point. It wasn't flashy. It didn't promise power overnight. But it was structured, clean.
He followed the breathing technique. Once. Twice. Again.
On the fourth cycle, he felt it—a faint warmth coiling in his chest.
Not like fire. Not like rage.
It was calm.
Flowing.
Qi.
He didn't know how much he had absorbed, or what it could do yet. But it was the start of something. A second path, quiet and hidden beneath the storm of Gene Refinement.
He folded the scroll, then burned it to ash with a small sparkstone.
No evidence. No risk.
Dren was already eating when Kaelren arrived at the mess pit.
Today, instead of their usual silence or heavy talks, Dren pointed to Kaelren's tray and said, "You ever figure out what that meat actually is?"
Kaelren blinked. "No. Just chew fast and don't think."
Dren smirked. "I swear mine's got fur in it. Might've been a Ravager Wolf with mange."
Kaelren glanced at it. "Or a camp dropout."
They both laughed — quietly, like they weren't sure if they were allowed.
After a moment, Kaelren tilted his head. "You always use dual daggers?"
Dren nodded. "Since before Camp 12. Used to practice on sticks, pretending they were blades. I like the rhythm. Left hand defends, right hand strikes."
Kaelren nodded. "Efficient."
Dren grinned. "That's the first compliment you've ever given me. I should carve it into stone."
Kaelren gave a dry smile. "Don't get used to it."
They finished their food in better spirits than usual.
Kaelren whent to the pits and dran to the dagger training yard.
When kaelren arrived he didn't wait for a challenge. He issued them.
His first opponent was Rank 35 — a brawler with bone-plated fists and a sneer that begged to be broken.
Kaelren met him blow for blow. No wasted movement. He caught the brawler's haymaker, twisted the arm at the elbow, and drove a knee into the man's throat.
Fight over in nine seconds.
Second match — Rank 31. A girl with reinforced shoulder guards who charged like a beast.
Kaelren sidestepped, used her momentum against her, and slammed her headfirst into the side of the combat pit.
Third match — Rank 28. He was faster, sharper. Kaelren took a cut to the chest but responded by sweeping his opponent's legs and driving his heel into the boy's ribcage until he stopped moving.
Each match was harder than the last.
Each victory more vicious.
By the time he faced Rank 25, Kaelren's knuckles were raw and blood soaked through his tank top.
His opponent was older. Confident. Experienced.
The older teen launched a spinning kick.
Kaelren ducked low, lunged in, and shoulder-slammed into his midsection with enough force to snap the air from his lungs. As his opponent staggered, Kaelren unleashed a brutal barrage — elbow to the jaw, fist to the solar plexus, heel stomp to the knee.
The crowd around the pit fell silent as Rank 25 crumpled, twitching on the stone.
No kill.
But close.
The instructors watched with narrowed eyes.
"Rank 25 has been defeated," one finally announced.
Kaelren turned without a word and walked away.
Later, a runner handed him his token.
Luxury Tent, Section C.
Dren had just finished training his daggers when he saw kaelren. He was going to go and talk, but then realized Kaelren was walking toward the luxury tents.
That night, Dren stood outside his tent while others slept.
He stared at the stars. At his hands.
They ached. Bled. Shook.
But they were his.
He could still feel the bite of failure from years past. The collapse. The helplessness.
He thought of Kaelren — moving like a blade cutting down all obstacles in his path making unbelievable progress.
And he made a choice.
If Gene Refinement wasn't enough... then he'd become more.
He would walk the Tech Path.
Whatever it took.
He would catch up.
Kaelren stepped through the threshold of his new tent and paused.
It wasn't just bigger — it felt like a space for someone who mattered.
The floor was layered in a dark pelt that dulled footsteps. The walls were reinforced beast hide stitched with bone-thread, sturdy enough to block wind and muffle noise. The lighting was adjustable via a crystal rune near the entrance — dim and quiet, a welcome shift from the harsh glowstones in the barracks.
There was a real bed now. Not a cot, not a pad, but a thick slab of hide-cushioned wood wrapped in stitched fur. His own storage trunk sat at the foot, along with a clean water basin etched with a mild heating rune. A low shelf held clean bandages, a salve bottle, and a folded gray uniform — one that actually fit. But he preferred his current clothes.
Kaelren walked the perimeter, trailing his fingers across the walls. No leaks. No drafts. The space felt like a reward carved out from a world that offered nothing freely.
He unclipped the Gravity Band from his arm and set it gently on the trunk. It was a tool, not a weapon — too heavy for combat, but perfect for training. He'd use it tomorrow to push his body closer to the edge again.
But tonight, he had one more task.
Kaelren sat cross-legged on the pelt, back straight, breath steady.
The Gene Refinement Sutra surged to life in his blood like red ink across invisible diagrams. His muscles, already aching from battle, clenched and relaxed under the force of the Sutra's healing rhythm.
Bone. Blood. Flesh. Nerve.
He followed each cycle with precision.
Not chasing strength for glory.
Just survival.
Just progress.
Just one more step forward.
By the time he finished the final cycle, the pain in his limbs had dulled again. His chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths. He crawled into bed without thinking and lay still, the warmth of the hides soothing bruised bones and cracked skin.
His eyes drifted shut.