Arin scrambled deep into the unforgiving brush of the Duskwind foothills, the exhilaration of his ascent to the Blood-Engraved stage quickly yielding to the stark reality of being hunted. He found refuge in a shallow, naturally eroded cave, shielded from view by a thick cascade of vines. The faint, persistent ache in his collarbone was still present, but it felt different now—less like a parasitic drain and more like a tightly coiled spring.
He pressed his back against the cool stone, closing his eyes to focus inward. The silver luminescence in his veins was gone, but the sensation of reinforced power remained. He was still profoundly weak by a true disciple's standard, but he was no longer a common mortal. He was something more durable.
To test his new limits, Arin deliberately drew the edge of a jagged rock across his forearm. It should have sliced deep. Instead, it left only a white, superficial scrape. He watched, fascinated, as the flesh immediately began to knit itself together, the scratch fading in less than a minute. The process was powered by his silver-tinged blood, a constant, low-level infusion of divine resilience.
The Blood-Engraved stage was a fortification. It granted him subtle speed, quiet strength, and rapid healing—attributes that were easily masked as "exceptional talent". Still, it was, in truth, the direct result of Seliora's second fragment fusing with his essence. His movements felt more economical, his senses sharper. He could smell the ozone on the wind and hear the faint rush of the sect's high-altitude water channels.
This is enough, he concluded. Enough to survive an unexpected blow. Enough to close a gap. Enough to keep running.
As night deepened, the forest sounds were abruptly drowned out by the metallic clamour of search parties. Arin crawled to the mouth of the cave, peering down the slope.
The initial search parties had already departed, replaced by organised squads of robed figures moving with disciplined speed. These were not the sluggish labourers or the humiliated Inner Court flunkey, Rennus. These were core disciples, their Qi shimmering faintly, using rudimentary tracking techniques.
The sect had escalated. The offence was no longer just a labourer attacking a disciple; it was a challenge to the Duskwind's authority, and they were responding with force. They were sweeping the lower slopes with professional efficiency, treating him not as a runaway servant, but as a genuine fugitive.
The lead search party stopped directly below his position. They were talking to a frustrated Rennus, who pointed wildly up the slope, his face still bruised and frantic.
"I tell you, he's possessed! He moved unnaturally fast!" Rennus whined.
A new voice cut through the discussion a voice of effortless authority, cool and utterly dismissive.
"Silence, Rennus. Your failure is noted. If the cursed boy possessed true speed, you wouldn't be standing here. He used a distraction, nothing more."
Arin risked a closer look. The speaker stood taller than the rest, clad in robes of deep blue and gold the insignia of the Core Disciple Heir. He possessed an air of profound, inherent superiority, his face sharp and handsome, framed by dark, slicked-back hair. This was Kaelen Dravos, the genius heir of the sect, and Arin recognised him instantly from the hushed gossip of the labourers.
Kaelen held a thin, elegant compass that pulsed with spiritual energy a high-grade tracking artefact. He didn't look angry; he looked bored, as if Arin's defiance was an administrative inconvenience.
"A cursed child, claiming heritage from a banished goddess, striking down an Inner Disciple, and then having the gall to flee into our mountains?" Kaelen said, his voice carrying the finality of a decree. "It's an insult to the very foundations of the Duskwind. I will find him. Not because he is a threat, but because this stain must be scrubbed out before the other sects hear of it. The dishonour is mine to erase."
Kaelen's arrogance was a tangible thing, a wall of pure, unearned confidence. He embodied the 'Shallow Well' Seliora had spoken of: immense talent, high-grade resources, but utterly blind to anything that defied his rigid world view. He wasn't tracking Arin out of zealotry, like Vynn; he was tracking him to preserve his ego and his sect's immaculate reputation.
Arin watched Kaelen use the spiritual compass, sweeping the landscape with ease. Kaelen's cultivation was formidable, easily in the high Spirit stage a gulf of power Arin could not currently cross. He realised that the perimeter was too exposed. Kaelen would find him before dawn.
He needed a new plan. He needed to go somewhere so dangerous, so irrelevant, or so deeply hidden that even the heir wouldn't waste his precious Qi searching.
His gaze drifted to the darkest, most rugged stretch of the high peaks the area that housed the true dangers of the sect's jurisdiction. Specifically, the deep valley that contained the hidden, volatile entrance to the Triallands, the fragmented realm of the old gods Seliora had mentioned. That area was sealed, guarded by powerful formations, and strictly forbidden to all but the most elite elder-level cultivators.
A forbidden zone. A place too important to be disturbed by a mere runaway.
It was madness. To approach the sealed Triallands meant risking the formation guards, the volatile Qi, and the ancient powers within. But Kaelen Dravos was looking for a fugitive hiding from the sect, not one attempting to breach its most heavily sealed boundary.
The risk was the very sacrifice that fueled his growth.
Arin made his choice. He swallowed the remaining water in his flask, then crawled backwards into the deeper recesses of the cave. He would wait for the patrols to pass, then make a desperate, uphill dash toward the forbidden mountain pass.
He would not be the prey; he would be the snake that strikes at the heart of the nest.
He was going to the Triallands, not to enter yet, but to hide in the shadow of true power, knowing that the greatest genius of the Duskwind Sect would never look for him where gods once walked.