The clang of wooden weapons echoed through the courtyard, mixing with the grunts of children barely past their sixth year. Sweat slicked their foreheads as the sun bore down mercilessly, casting long shadows behind their small frames. Among them stood Lucius, eyes calm, movements fluid and deliberate.
The daily drills for Outer Disciples had intensified since Elder Faerin had taken a personal interest in the young initiates. Lucius found himself at the center of that attention. Not because he boasted loudly, nor because he sought it—but because his form was too precise. Too refined. Too controlled.
Even at the age of seven, he moved like a trained martial artist.
"Lucius, again!" barked Instructor Voran, a cold-eyed man from the Minor Blade Sect who took immense pride in discipline and pain tolerance. His whip cracked against the ground beside another child, who flinched and stumbled mid-step.
Lucius did not flinch. He stepped forward with practiced ease, repeating the set of footwork movements demanded of them. Twelve stances, shifting from low guards to offensive plunges, then a retreat back to neutral. While others panted and swayed, Lucius's breathing remained steady. Deep. Rhythmic.
Even as the wind picked up and the heat bore down, he did not falter.
"Good. Again. But faster," Voran snapped, narrowing his gaze. "You think you're special because you don't fall over like the rest?"
Lucius didn't answer. He knew better.
If there was one lesson the cult taught above all else—it was that silence was often wiser than pride.
He repeated the sequence. This time, sharper. He twisted his foot at a better angle during the fourth stance, as he had remembered watching a higher-ranking Inner Disciple do months ago. He mimicked the pivot with nearly perfect form.
A flicker crossed Voran's face. Approval? Maybe. But more likely annoyance.
"Stop showing off," whispered a voice beside him—Riven, a lean boy with gaunt cheeks and bruised knuckles. He was two years older than Lucius, but always seemed to fall behind him during sparring. "You think he won't beat it out of you later?"
Lucius tilted his head but said nothing.
Riven wasn't wrong. Excellence, in the Velzarim Cult, was both admired and punished. It marked you as different—and the different rarely survived long without backing. Lucius had no backing. Not yet.
Still, his body wouldn't allow him to settle for mediocrity. The Martial Heavenly Body burned with instinct—demanding perfection. His limbs remembered every movement, every flaw he had seen others make. It was like having a mirror etched into his mind that showed the right path forward. He couldn't ignore it even if he tried.
The session ended as the sun dipped lower. The children scattered to their dorms or latrine duties, some limping, others clutching bruises. Lucius washed quickly and retreated to his section of the stone barracks. His room—shared with three others—was spartan. A wooden bed. A corner bucket. Nothing more.
But Lucius didn't rest.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, shirtless, and began circulating his inner qi.
The pale threads of energy—weak and barely present—moved sluggishly through his meridians. He could feel the resistance in his blood, the sluggish blockage around the base of his spine. His cultivation hadn't advanced since he reached Third Rate. His foundation was stable, yes—but no breakthrough.
Not yet.
He remembered the words of the ancient scroll from the hidden compartment beneath the barracks floor. The one left behind by Klaigos—the Sword Demon. His ancestor.
"Speed is false mastery. Depth is truth. Walk slowly into the abyss and do not blink."
Lucius obeyed those words. He wasn't in a rush to reach Second Rate or Bone Tempering. His body was already preparing, strengthening silently under the surface. His real training wasn't in public. It was in these quiet moments, when the world was still and only breath remained.
But tonight, something changed.
A rustle outside his room. Then, a knock.
Lucius stood. Quietly. The others were already asleep, snoring lightly. He slid the door open.
A figure stood in the dark—slender, robed in gray with a mask covering the lower half of their face. A girl. Maybe ten or eleven. Her eyes glowed faintly violet in the moonlight.
"You're Lucius?" she whispered.
He nodded.
"Come with me."
She turned without waiting. Lucius followed.
The girl led him across the Outer Disciple compound, past the training fields, and down a path he'd never walked. Into the side tunnels of the cliff wall—the ones used by the Shadow Sect's minor branches.
These were forbidden to Outer Disciples.
Yet no one stopped them.
Eventually, they entered a stone chamber lit by blue lanterns. Inside stood a man wrapped in deep gray robes. His skin was pale, and his eyes were completely black—void of sclera, as if he were born in darkness.
"Lucius of the Heaven Destroyer Lineage," the man said.
Lucius froze. No one had ever spoken that name aloud. Not since he found the hidden scroll. Not since he saw the sigil beneath the floorboards—a black sword through a broken sun.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Lucius replied carefully.
The man chuckled. "Don't be stupid. You walk with the step of Klaigos. Your footwork mimics the Shadow Flow, and your breathing holds the Sword Demon's rhythm. We watch. Always."
Lucius lowered his eyes slightly.
"I am Venar of the Minor Shadow Sect—House of Hollow Silence. We gather those who show potential beyond their station. And you, boy, are a mistake in the making. One the Elders haven't noticed yet."
"Why bring me here?" Lucius asked.
"To teach you silence. True silence. The kind that lives in the bones, not just the mouth."
Venar stepped closer, and the air around him chilled.
"You are too perfect, boy. That makes people stare. Staring leads to questions. Questions lead to secrets being unearthed. You don't want that."
Lucius said nothing.
The girl who brought him stepped into the shadows again. She hadn't spoken since.
"From tonight on, once a week, you will come here. You will learn Demonic Veil Steps—a footwork used by spies and assassins. You will learn how to kill without a trace. How to vanish before a cry is uttered. You will walk as your ancestors once walked—between light and blade."
"Why teach me?" Lucius asked.
Venar's smile was thin. "Because you'll be useful. And if you aren't—you'll die. Just like the rest of your sect did."
The first lesson was pain.
Venar blindfolded him and set knives spinning through the room. Lucius had to move—not to block, but to not be there when the blade reached him. He failed. Again and again.
Each cut was shallow. Intentional. A reminder.
But the second time, he began to hear the shifts in wind.
By the tenth repetition, his feet moved half a breath before the blade was even thrown.
Venar nodded. "Your body listens. That's good. But next time, don't just dodge. Make them believe you were never there."
Lucius returned to his room just before dawn, wounds hidden beneath his robe. No one noticed. Not even Riven, who simply grumbled about aching arms as they got ready for the next day's drills.
Three weeks passed.
Lucius trained with Venar in secret. His movements during day training became less flashy. More clumsy—even intentionally so. He tripped once. Let his strike land off-balance once. He watched others gain favor. Watched Riven move ahead in the rankings.
But at night, he walked on walls. Slipped between shadows. Threw knives into moving rats in pitch darkness. Memorized sixty-nine nerve points that could silence a scream instantly.
And he felt himself changing.
The cult had taught him pain, discipline, and competition. But the Shadow Sect taught him deception. And it was here that Lucius's brilliance truly bloomed.
It was during a regular spar that it finally happened.
Instructor Voran called Lucius to face Riven.
The courtyard fell quiet. Everyone knew what this meant. Riven had surpassed Lucius in recent weeks—at least in the instructors' eyes. This was Lucius's chance to take back his rank.
They circled.
Riven sneered. "All that perfect movement gone now, huh? You're scared."
Lucius said nothing.
Riven lunged—fast and direct.
Lucius evaded. But not like before. He slipped back just slightly slower. Let Riven's strike graze his robe. Let his foot stumble just slightly. Then retaliated.
It was clean. A palm strike to the solar plexus—not enough to crush it, but enough to drop Riven to his knees, gasping.
The silence was long. Voran frowned.
"You've been holding back."
Lucius bowed. "Apologies, Instructor. I've been recovering from sickness."
It was a lie.
But it was believed.
And from then on, the cult forgot to keep a close eye on the quiet, withdrawn child named Lucius. They stopped watching too closely.
Which is exactly what Lucius wanted.
Later that night, as he sat with Venar again in the shadow chamber, the man poured him a cup of bitter black tea.
"You're learning well."
Lucius nodded. "They don't look anymore."
"Good. The best blades are never drawn."
Lucius looked at the training dummies in the corner, each pierced through at perfect angles. His own throwing knives had grown sharper.
"What's next?" he asked.
Venar smiled coldly. "Next? We train your mind. Because the cult will teach you how to kill—but we will teach you how to think. That is the greater weapon."
And in that moment, under the cold flame of the Shadow Sect's hidden fire, Lucius began to become something more than just talented.
He began to become dangerous.
[End of Chapter 5]