The cold, still air of the cellar was Arin's constant companion, the rhythmic drip of water his metronome. His life devolved into a stark dichotomy: the silent study of the stolen manual and the relentless, almost obsessive practice of its techniques.
The manual, The Common Man's Guide to Qi Foundation, was tedious and repetitive. Its goal was not rapid power, but simple endurance the slow, painful conditioning of the body's meridians to accept and circulate a minimum baseline of Qi.
Arin would practice the Basic Circulation Technique for hours, sitting cross-legged in the dark. The method required him to draw the sparse ambient Qi down from his lungs, through his blood-engraved veins, and into his spiritual core (dantian).
The effort was maddeningly inefficient. Every thread of Qi he managed to draw was immediately pulled and swallowed by the crescent Mark, consumed by Seliora's demanding fragment. He never gained net power; he only ever broke even, or often, felt the cold spiritual debt accrue. It was a net-zero game, where the only prize was survival.
Yet, he persisted. He realised the cultivation wasn't about gaining Qi, but about forcing the pathways to open. Each attempt, each forced circulation, painfully stretched his meridians. The Mark's constant, subtle drain was acting as a high-pressure forge: it destroyed the Qi, but in doing so, it toughened the cage that held the divine prisoner. His mortal body was slowly becoming dense, durable, and ready for the next influx of divine chaos.
After a particularly frustrating session, Arin reached out, forcing the connection to his captive goddess.
'I am spinning my wheels. I am burning my essence for no return. I am stabilising, yes, but at this rate, I will be discovered before I gain the strength to fight Kaelen Dravos. Explain this sacrifice, Seliora.'
Seliora's voice was lucid this time, a cold, calming echo of ancient wisdom in his mind.
"Patience, little anchor. The mortal path is long, but it is necessary. You are cultivating your Law of Balance," she explained. "The divine power I grant is volatile. The last fragment of the Blood-Engraved Stage nearly tore your mortal core apart because your foundations were too brittle. The next Mark, Arin, will be exponentially more powerful, more painful. If your mortal vessel is not reinforced, your meridians are not widened, toughened the next infusion will shatter you, and my fragment will be lost to the abyss."
She paused, the image of her fractured, ethereal form shimmering. "The Basic Circulation Technique does not empower you; it ensures you survive the next time I do. Your mortal labor is the price of divine survival."
Arin accepted the grim reality. He was not cultivating for glory, but for structural integrity.
With this renewed focus, he turned his attention to his other stolen resource: the duty roster and the crude sect map. He laid the damp parchment out, meticulously tracking the Inner Court rotations. He isolated the patrols, the supply deliveries, and the practice times.
He focused on the movements of one individual: Kaelen Dravos.
The schedule confirmed Kaelen was not just powerful, but arrogantly predictable. His solo practice session in a low-traffic area, his contempt for the Outer Sect—this predictability was his fatal flaw. Kaelen was slated for a specific, solo practice session three days from now, in the Outer Practice Arena D—a low-traffic area used primarily by Inner Disciples for private, highly-competitive duels. He favored the early evening, when the light was fading, and his audience was minimal.
If I want the next Mark, I need to defy the single greatest source of order and power available to me right now. Rennus was a bully; Kaelen Dravos is the system itself. A confrontation with the heir is the ultimate act of defiance, the perfect sacrifice needed to unlock the next stage of divine power.
The risk was fatal. Kaelen could erase him with a flick of his wrist. But this was the cost of his accelerated path.
Arin marked the date and location on his stolen schedule with a shard of chalk. Outer Practice Arena D. Early Evening. Kaelen Dravos.
His eyes, reflecting the dim light of his hidden lamp, held a terrifying, focused calm. He wasn't planning a fight; he was planning a trigger. He needed to strike, defy the very lineage of the Duskwind Sect, and survive long enough for the goddess to reward his audacity.
Three days, he thought. Three days to harden the cage.
This concludes the edit for Chapter 11 and the set of chapters you provided! The arc from frantic escape to calculated confrontation is now very clear and stylistically consistent.
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