The sect halls hummed with the aftermath of the trial. The Shrouded Ravine had claimed none of the initiates, but it had marked them—winners and losers alike—in the eyes of their peers and, more dangerously, their elders.
Joren walked through the corridors like a conquering hero, the jade serpent coiled proudly at his shoulder, its scales catching the torchlight. Elders paused to acknowledge him, their gazes approving, their whispers carrying weight.
"A rare talent."
"Such rapid growth—remarkable."
"If he maintains this pace, the inner court will have its next prodigy."
The words reached Joren's ears, feeding the hunger in his eyes. He bowed respectfully, but his smirk was never far from his lips.
Kaelen, meanwhile, slipped through the same corridors as if he were made of mist. No elder stopped him. No whispers followed. To most, he was background—another forgettable shadow trailing after the brighter stars.
And yet, in that invisibility lay safety.
—
In the training grounds, Joren sparred under the watchful eyes of a silver-robed elder. His serpent lashed and struck, venom sizzling against the air, each motion sharp, precise, hungry. The elder nodded, offering corrections with the kind of patience reserved for disciples worth molding.
Other initiates gathered, murmuring in awe. Some already began attaching themselves to Joren's orbit, eager to bask in his rising light. He welcomed them with a lord's ease.
From the far end, Kaelen observed in silence, seated cross-legged, his serpent faintly flickering at his side. His teammates, Thalen and Mira, trained nearby. Thalen boasted of their victory in the ravine, pounding his chest as if he alone had won. Mira followed timidly, grateful to have survived.
Neither spared Kaelen a glance.
But Kaelen's eyes were fixed not on the sparring techniques themselves, but on the subtle play of Qi in Joren's meridians. His Spectral Meridian Insight caught flashes of circulation paths, the pulse of energy through arm, chest, and serpent. Every strike was more than a show of power—it was a map to be memorized, dissected, rebuilt.
Pain lanced through Kaelen's skull as he probed too deep. A reminder of the limit. He could not push too far into the realm above his own. Not yet.
—
Sect politics deepened in the quiet spaces. Elders convened, their conversations drifting like smoke.
"This batch is stronger than the last."
"The jade serpent boy, especially."
"But there are always… shadows among the disciples. Some that never bloom."
Kaelen heard fragments of these talks as he carried scrolls, swept courtyards, performed menial tasks assigned to the lowest-ranked initiates. The words stung, but also anchored him. They were right—he was a shadow. That was his safety, his blade's sheath.
The sect's gaze was a double-edged sword. It could lift, but it could also cut.
—
One evening, as the moon hung pale and thin above the sect, Kaelen sat alone in the meditation hall. The place was nearly empty, save for the flickering lanterns and the faint rustle of robes from distant disciples.
He summoned his serpent. To others, it would have looked faint, unimpressive. But within his Soul Palace, the husk had almost entirely sloughed away. Silver scales glowed, eyes bright with cruel promise.
Kaelen exhaled, steady and calm. Let Joren have the spotlight. Let him shine until he blinds himself. I will remain where no one looks—until the time comes to strike.
The serpent coiled tighter within him, silent and patient.
In the halls of the sect, politics churned unseen. Rivalries bloomed. Elders placed their bets.
And in the shadows, Kaelen sharpened his edge, waiting for the first true cut.