The Vale had quieted, but the tension lingered like a low hum under the earth. The elders' visit left ripples that neither Kaelen nor the other disciples could ignore. Even as the squads returned toward the sect, Kaelen felt the weight of unseen eyes tracing his every move—not only Joren's, but those who watched in silence from above, from the shadows of influence within the sect.
Once the camp was set for the night, Kaelen retreated to a secluded hollow beneath a cluster of twisted pines. Here, the Vale's whispers still carried faint traces of the corrupted Qi from the previous battles, an unintentional boon for Kaelen's secret work. He knelt, serpent coiling faintly at his side, eyes narrowing in concentration.
Tonight, he would push further than ever before.
He began by replaying every movement from the past mission: the flow of Qi through the corrupted beasts, the tremors in their veins, the subtle weaknesses revealed only by careful observation. His serpent, a faint husk, moved in tandem with him, mirroring the flow in real time, a living extension of his analysis.
Kaelen drew a deep breath. He allowed his Insight to trace the meridian patterns as he had observed them in the Archive, and then, carefully, he attempted to replicate the fang-inspired strikes. Each attempt drew fire from within his chest—a scorching reminder that these flows were not naturally his own.
Yet he endured. Pain became a teacher, not a threat. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, but he did not stop. He could feel the serpent's growth aligning with the subtle new currents he forced into its coils, as if it too understood the incremental nature of power.
The first strike he released this session was cautious, a small spiral aimed at a tree trunk. The bark quivered under the corrosive flow of Qi, faintly blackened where the energy lingered. The serpent pulsed with faint silver, reacting to the technique as if testing its own capabilities.
"Again," Kaelen muttered under his breath, and the strike repeated, stronger this time, more precise, tracing the flow of the beast-inspired meridian channels in perfect mimicry. By the fifth repetition, the tree's bark began to crack subtly, a quiet testament to his progress.
He paused, feeling the ache in his chest settle into a deep, steady burn. His serpent hissed faintly, coils quivering, as if impatient for more. Kaelen ignored it, focusing instead on the patterns he traced across his Soul Palace's interior. Each spike of effort was logged in his memory, each misstep catalogued.
Hours passed. Night deepened, the Vale holding its breath around him. Even the wind had slowed, as though unwilling to disturb his work.
Kaelen moved into a second exercise, more complex: a flowing sequence designed to combine observation with immediate counteraction. He mimicked the attacks he had seen from both the corrupted beasts and the orthodox disciples' serpents, forcing his own husk to respond dynamically. The serpent flickered and pulsed faint silver, feeding back into him as much as he directed it.
He tested a small variant of the fang-inspired spiral, letting it extend only slightly, enough to sense its effect on the ambient Qi without leaving overt traces. Even faintly, it tingled the edges of his nerves, leaving him aware that the technique was growing, solidifying—slowly, secretly.
A faint sound made him freeze. Leaves rustled softly at the edge of the hollow. Footsteps? Possibly a fox—or perhaps one of the sect's junior sentries moving through the Vale. Kaelen's hands stilled, serpent coiling tighter, its eyes dim silver.
Nothing approached. Only the night's natural whisperings. He exhaled slowly, allowing the tension to melt back into the air. The serpent pulsed in tandem with his breathing, an unspoken acknowledgment of shared patience.
This secrecy was as important as the technique itself. The slightest exposure could bring suspicion—or worse. The elders' eyes were not idle, and Joren's curiosity had a sharp edge that would not forgive unknown power.
Kaelen leaned back on his heels, reviewing the night's progress. His serpent's faint husk had solidified slightly more than the evening before, scales sharper in outline, eyes glimmering brighter with silver. Two techniques, evolving in tandem: one replicating the fang's corrosive strike, the other a flowing defensive spiral drawn from observed patterns. Both were crude, both were hidden—but both were his, shaped by insight rather than brute force.
A thought flickered, dangerous and bright: if he continued at this pace, he would soon surpass what anyone expected of him—not only Joren, not only his squad, but the elders themselves.
He could almost hear the Vale itself whispering in approval, encouraging him to push further. But Kaelen forced himself to remain calm. Power without control was exposure; growth without subtlety was ruin.
As the first light of dawn touched the Vale, Kaelen withdrew his serpent into the Soul Palace, faint coils dissolving into shadow. His body ached with the burn of exertion, yet his mind was alive with new understanding.
He stood slowly, stretching, letting his eyes sweep over the surrounding trees. One day, the Vale would no longer be enough for him. One day, the sect, the elders, even Joren, would be forced to acknowledge the quiet shadow that had grown in their midst.
But for now, he remained unseen. Invisible. Patient.
And in that patient silence, Kaelen's edge sharpened, a hidden blade waiting for the moment it could strike.