The Spiritual Herb Garden was a shimmering oasis within the utilitarian stone of the Duskwind Sect the very heart of its financial and medicinal power. Walled off by a low, rune-etched barrier, the air inside was thick, fragrant, and almost visibly humid with concentrated life force. Arin was assigned the task of "weeding the perimeter," a thin strip of poor soil just outside the valuable enclosure.
His immediate overseer was Inner Court Disciple Rennus, a youth barely nineteen years old, whose chest swelled with the arrogance afforded by his third-stage Spirit cultivation. Rennus wore the immaculate Inner Court silvers, and his face was perpetually pinched in condescension.
"Listen, laborer. Your job is to weed this boundary. If a single root from the vile common weeds touches the garden's sacred soil, Master Tian will turn you into fertilizer," Rennus announced, standing with his hands crossed, a picture of lazy privilege. He spotted the dark crescent mark on Arin's neck. His lip curled into a sneer of profound disgust.
"Ah, the cursed child. I heard about you. Keep that blight away from the living herbs," Rennus commanded. He took a single step, his eyes blazing with petty cruelty. "You are beneath contempt, but you serve a purpose. Kneel when I approach. Do you understand?" (B1.18)
Arin simply nodded, not giving the disciple the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. He began pulling the weeds, his fingers moving with surgical precision. Rennus was watching him, waiting for any excuse to inflict pain.
After twenty minutes of silent labor, the tension broke. Rennus sighed dramatically, boredom turning into malice.
"You're too quiet, cursed one. It makes me nervous. Perhaps a little lesson in respect is required."
Rennus raised his hand, gathering a thin, stinging thread of Qi at his fingertip. It was a basic technique designed to inflict short, sharp, non-lethal agony—a method disciples used on servants to assert their superiority. He flicked his wrist, and the thread of Qi, thin as a needle, shot toward Arin's exposed forearm.
The intent was clear: a painful sting to draw blood and reassert the hierarchy. It was a choice Rennus made to inflict humiliation, expecting meek submission.
For Arin, this was the moment. This minor act of cruelty was his mortal choice, the trial Seliora demanded. If he flinched, he remained a slave to their contempt. If he fought, he risked death but earned his growth.
The Qi thread struck his forearm. It was painful, but the impact was immediately absorbed and drained by the crescent mark, which pulsed a hungry, cold beat. Arin only swayed, pretending the pain was overwhelming.
Rennus laughed, emboldened by the perceived success. "See that? That's what happens when you breathe the same air as your betters. Let's try that again, curse-bearer." (B1.19)
This time, Arin didn't wait. As Rennus gathered his Qi for the second, stronger strike, Arin moved.
The previous weeks of grueling physical labor had hardened his Flesh-Touched body. The divine essence, even dormant, granted him micro-perceptions the disciple lacked. Arin saw the precise stance, the momentary vulnerability in Rennus's coiled posture.
Rennus was relying on distance and his Qi advantage. Arin had to close the gap and negate the ethereal energy.
He launched himself forward, not aiming for a strike, but aiming for a psychological advantage. He slammed his body, shoulder-first, into the shallow rune-etched wall that protected the garden. The impact was purely physical, shaking the small segment of the wall.
Rennus scoffed, preparing to release his Qi blast. But the distraction was critical. The moment Arin impacted the wall, he grabbed a handful of the rich, consecrated Spiritual Earth from the perimeter soil that Rennus considered sacred.
"Sacrilege!" Rennus roared, momentarily distracted from his technique.
That was the opening. Arin, his eyes blazing with calculated desperation, hurled the handful of sacred earth directly into Rennus's face. The soil, rich with spiritual energy, momentarily confused the disciple's Qi senses.
Rennus staggered back, coughing, his concentration shattered. His cultivation technique misfired, the Qi blast venting harmlessly into the air.
Arin moved through the coughing figure, leveraging his momentum. Instead of punching, he used the simple, direct attack he learned in the Ashveil slums: a low sweep-kick that utilized the slightly reinforced strength of his Flesh-Touched body.
Rennus, used to fighting those who relied solely on spiritual techniques, was thrown completely off balance by the crude, brutal mortal tactic. He tripped, crashing backwards with a sound of brittle silk and cracked bone.
The roar of defiance was not Arin's. It came from the crescent mark.
FUSE.
The moment of profound mortal choice the willing embrace of conflict and sacrilege to defy the established hierarchy was enough. Arin felt a pain a thousand times worse than the first touch. The cold, silver fire erupted beneath his skin, flowing from the Mark and down into his veins. It was the fusion of the second Lunari fragment, a process so violent that he nearly blacked out.
He stumbled, grabbing the garden wall for support, his vision blurring as his soul underwent a complete, agonising rewrite. His heart hammered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain was not just spiritual; it was physical, as if molten silver was replacing his blood.
When he looked at his hand, it was shaking uncontrollably, but for a single beat, he saw a faint, deep silver luminescence beneath the skin. His blood was literally glowing with the faint light of divine runes.
He had ascended. The Blood-Engraved stage was complete.
A raw, unfamiliar power coursed through him. It manifested not as a massive energy boost, but as a subtle, pervasive resilience. He felt his bones knit tighter, his reflexes sharpen, and his immediate wound from the first Qi thread vanish without a trace. He felt lighter, faster, a predatory speed he hadn't possessed moments before.
Rennus, sputtering and covered in sacred dirt, finally picked himself up, his eyes wide, transitioning from fury to pure terror. He saw the faint, residual silver glow on Arin's neck, and the sight broke him.
"You! you cannot touch me! I will inform the Masters! The cursed one attacked a core disciple!" Rennus shrieked, scrambling back toward the Inner Court path.
Arin didn't pursue him. He had his victory, and his ascent. But the public defeat of an Inner Court disciple, witnessed by the nearby labourers, was a massive violation. He needed to disappear before the true authorities arrived.
Run, Arin. You have taken the power, now escape the price.
He turned and bolted, using his new, subtle burst of speed to vanish into the low brush bordering the labourers' area. He didn't run toward the barracks; that was the first place they would look. He ran toward the mountain path, needing isolation to control the strange, buzzing new power in his blood.
He was no longer just a cursed labourer; he was a problem. A threat to the sect's order, a stain that had just proved itself capable of biting back. The true consequences of his defiance had only just begun.