Three days of relentless practice had hardened Arin's mortal core to a new level of resilience. The thin spiritual energy he cycled, though instantly consumed by the Mark, had widened his pathways enough. He felt not powerful, but stable a low-grade iron ingot ready to be struck by the blacksmith's hammer.
He consulted the stolen duty roster one last time. The early evening was the most volatile hour for the sect, the shift change between the day and night guards causing brief, chaotic overlaps in patrol coverage. This was his window.
He slipped out of the cellar just as the last rays of the sun bled from the sky, painting the high towers in shades of gold and deep purple. He moved with the confidence of a native, no longer creeping in fear, but flowing with surgical precision. The schedules were his map, and his enhanced Blood-Engraved senses were his compass. He bypassed a cluster of Outer Disciples returning to their dorms by slipping through the narrow, unused space between a stone fence and a water reservoir, their focus entirely internal.
His stealth was flawless. He reached the periphery of the Inner Court, the air growing thick with refined Qi. He was a shadow moving between the walls of the giants.
Outer Practice Arena D was a desolate, circular patch of hard-packed earth bordered by worn stone benches, tucked away on the campus's southeastern edge. It was used primarily when Inner Disciples sought privacy, despising the noise and attention of the main duelling grounds. Its very neglect was its defence; it was too mundane to warrant sophisticated wards.
Arin reached the arena and instantly began his preparations. He was a creature of the streets, not the mountains, and his techniques were mortal, crude, but effective.
He examined the ground near the centre of the arena. He used a length of thin, almost invisible fibre stolen from the laundry bins and strung it taut between two low-sitting, cracked foundation stones. The tripwire was positioned not to cause injury, but to force a momentary stumble or misstep for anyone approaching from the main path.
Next, he piled a small, haphazard mound of loose shale and small stones directly in the centre of the arena where Kaelen would likely begin his solo forms. The mound was negligible to a Spirit-stage cultivator, but its unexpected crunch underfoot would break concentration and spoil the perfect rhythm Kaelen was likely seeking.
These were the tactics of a beggar fighting a noble low, petty, and dependent on exploiting arrogance. A master would sweep the arena with spiritual sense and instantly spot the disruptions. But Kaelen Dravos was an Heir. He would expect danger from rivals, from elder tests, or from the wild not from the arrangement of dust and stone by an escaped, low-caste labourer.
Arin finished his setup and retreated to a crevice high on the back wall of the arena a blind spot where the shadows were thickest and his silhouette invisible against the backdrop of the mountain ridge, settling into a focused silence, his mind stilling, his Blood-Engraved body coiling, ready.
He did not have to wait long.
The approach of Kaelen Dravos was not subtle. It was a tangible pressure wave, the casual overflow of immense, contained power. Arin didn't hear him; he felt him.
Kaelen's Qi signature was like a cold, brilliant star in the spiritual night vast, refined, and radiating the purity of a genuine genius. It was the absolute antithesis of Arin's meagre, constantly sapping core. Kaelen was likely in the late Spirit stage, perhaps even touching the Aperture stage a gap in cultivation so vast it was like comparing a candle to a supernova.
The sheer power disparity caused a wave of nauseating dread to wash over Arin. His mortal instinct screamed at him to run, to burrow back into his cellar and never emerge. The sound of Kaelen's heavy, confident footsteps finally reached the arena entrance, the spiritual pressure preceding him like a hot wind.
It was in that paralysing moment of fear that the Divinity Mark on Arin's neck responded.
The crescent flared, not with pain, but with a cold, intense surge of anticipation that drowned the mortal fear. It was a clear, unmistakable acknowledgement of the danger and the opportunity. Seliora's fragment was fully awake, humming like a pulled bowstring, demanding the final act of defiance.
The choice is before you, Arin Solmere. This risk is the only currency that buys the next mark. Die here, a slave to fate, or defy the Heir and become my true anchor.
The pulse faded, leaving Arin trembling slightly, but now fueled by a cold, desperate resolve. The goddess had confirmed the rules: Kaelen Dravos was the key. He had to be challenged, defied, and humiliated, no matter the mortal cost.
Kaelen walked into the arena, his luxurious blue and gold robes swirling around his tall frame. He was holding a scroll detailing the forms he intended to practice. He moved directly to the centre, his eyes scanning the empty stands, utterly dismissing the possibility of threat. He tossed his scroll onto a bench, stretched once, and adopted a perfect, ready stance not even noticing the low tripwire or the pile of shale. His Qi swirling beautifully, filling the arena with a golden light.
He was waiting for a shadow to fight. He was waiting for a challenge worthy of his time.
Arin took a deep breath, the scent of dust and refined Qi filling his lungs. He slid off the ledge and landed silently on the packed dirt, stepping out of the shadows.
"Disciple Dravos." Arin's voice was hoarse from disuse, yet it cut through the silent, oppressive power of the heir.
Kaelen's eyes flickered open. He saw the ragged labourer, the face-slapping fugitive, standing just twenty paces away, the forbidden crescent mark clearly visible in the moonlight.
Kaelen didn't look threatened. He looked profoundly annoyed.
"You didn't run to the abyss," Kaelen said, his voice dripping with condescension. "You ran back into my domain. Foolish. Did you come here to beg for an easier death, cursed one?"
Arin didn't answer. He simply assumed a basic, defensive stance, ready to move. The true fight the fight for the next stage of his divine power is about to begin.