The sect always felt different after a mission. Whispers carried longer in the halls, footsteps grew sharper, and everyone seemed eager to attach themselves to victory or distance themselves from failure.
This time, victory had a name, and it was Joren.
When the squads returned from the Vale, the elders wasted little time before holding a public assembly. The central training square had been swept clean, polished stone gleaming under the sun. Disciples gathered in rows, murmurs rising and falling as the elders filed in, crimson and jade robes sweeping the ground.
Kaelen stood near the back, blending into the cluster of those who'd neither failed nor distinguished themselves enough to stand out. His serpent husk lay dormant in the Soul Palace, faint, quiet, just as he intended. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes downcast, listening.
"Disciples," Elder Su intoned, voice carrying with the force of authority, "the Vale has once again tested your courage. Some faltered. Some endured. And some—" he turned his gaze toward the front, where Joren stood tall with his serpent shimmering like liquid gold around his shoulders— "shone."
A swell of approval rippled through the crowd. Joren bowed, movements precise, every angle practiced. His serpent basked in the attention, coils shifting with faint arrogance.
Elder Su raised a hand. "Joren distinguished himself in both strength and leadership. He is proof of what this sect can produce. For this, he shall receive a jade token of commendation and access to the Inner Pavilion for one month."
The announcement hit like a gong. Gasps, murmurs, envy—Kaelen felt it ripple outward in waves. The Inner Pavilion was no small prize. Even senior disciples struggled to gain a fraction of time inside, where ancient manuals and advanced techniques waited.
Joren accepted the token with a calm smile, though his eyes glinted when he turned to face the crowd. That smile wasn't humility—it was conquest.
Kaelen lowered his gaze, though not before catching the flicker of resentment in several disciples' eyes. Not everyone applauded the golden boy.
That evening, the sect buzzed like a disturbed hive. Joren's name was on every lip—his technique, his serpent, his composure. Kaelen walked the edge of the courtyards, ears open, catching fragments.
"Always him. Always Joren.""Did you see the way Elder Su looked at him?""He'll be an elder himself one day.""…unless he burns too brightly and too fast."
Kaelen let the words sink in. For every voice of admiration, another muttered envy, skepticism, or veiled malice. The sect thrived on talent, yes, but it also thrived on balance. And when one talent rose too far above the rest, balance demanded correction.
Joren didn't see it. He basked too openly.
The next day, training resumed. Joren strode onto the sparring platform, serpent gleaming, a smile that dared anyone to challenge him. Several did, eager for recognition, eager to test themselves. One after another, they fell.
Kaelen watched from the shadows of the colonnade, arms folded. He studied not Joren's techniques—those were already familiar—but the reactions of those around him. Elders nodding. Disciples whispering. Rivals grinding their teeth.
Cracks were forming. Not in Joren's strength, but in the web around him.
Later, when training shifted to squad drills, Kaelen quietly maneuvered within his group. He said little, kept his contributions measured. Enough to seem competent, never enough to draw attention. But he noted how resentment toward Joren simmered even among his own squad members, how some rolled their eyes when Joren spoke too proudly, how others whispered about unfair advantages.
Kaelen said nothing. He only listened. A shadow learned more by silence than noise.
By nightfall, Kaelen found himself on the northern terrace, the sect spread below him in layers of lantern light. He closed his eyes, extending his Insight just faintly, sensing the meridians of disciples practicing in distant courtyards. Sparks of power danced like fireflies across the mountain.
And there—strong, bright, arrogant—was Joren. His flows were smoother now, sharper, no doubt from the Pavilion's teachings. Kaelen studied the currents for as long as he dared, committing them to memory, then withdrew before the thread could lead back to him.
The serpent in his Soul Palace stirred. Silver eyes glinted in the dark, whispering hunger without sound. Kaelen breathed evenly, hand pressed to the terrace railing.
"Patience," he whispered. "The higher he climbs, the harder he'll fall."
The sect's politics deepened over the next week. Joren became the centerpiece of Elder Su's faction, paraded at assemblies, invited to private discussions. Other elders, less aligned, began pushing their own disciples harder, resentful of Su's rising influence.
Kaelen saw it all from the sidelines. To most, he was still a husk, still faint, still unremarkable. But in the shadows, he was weaving. Training in secret. Refining techniques. Watching meridians flow like maps only he could read.
The sect was a storm, and Joren thought himself its eye. Kaelen knew better. Storms did not spare their brightest lightning bolts.
And when the tempest finally broke, Kaelen would be ready—not in the light, but in the silence where shadows sharpened their blades.