The sect courtyards shimmered with late-morning light, lanterns extinguished, banners swaying faintly in the mountain breeze. On days like this, the eastern ring filled with disciples too restless for solitary cultivation. Spars broke out on every stretch of sand, overseen by seniors or left to their own raw tempers.
Kaelen lingered at the edge, ostensibly practicing serpent control, his hands folded and Qi drawn in tight. In truth, his eyes were elsewhere—on the ripple moving through the crowd.
Joren had arrived.
The golden serpent spiraled high above his shoulders, its radiance so sharp it made lesser spirits dim in comparison. Heads turned. Some in awe, some in envy, some in open resentment. Joren drank it all in, each bow or glare only feeding the pride that had begun to settle around him like a second skin.
"Clear the ring!" Joren called, his voice crisp with command. "Let me show you what proper serpent control looks like."
The ring emptied quickly. No one wanted to be the fool who challenged him—until one figure remained.
It was Dalen, a tall senior disciple from another elder's faction, known more for his bluntness than subtlety. His serpent was respectable, if not remarkable—a solid slate-gray creature with a steady coil. Dalen planted his feet in the sand and crossed his arms.
"You want the ring," he said, voice even. "Then earn it."
The crowd stirred. This wasn't the script. Usually, people bent before Joren's star, or avoided him altogether. Kaelen saw Joren's jaw tighten—not with doubt, but with insult.
"You would challenge me?" Joren asked.
Dalen's serpent flickered across his shoulders. "Why not? You bleed like the rest of us."
Gasps rippled through the disciples. It was the first time someone had spoken so plainly to Joren in public. Kaelen leaned slightly forward, curiosity sharpening his watch.
The duel began in a flurry of dust. Joren's serpent lashed with golden arcs, each strike brighter than the last. Dalen met them with solid defenses, the slate serpent coiling into shields of Qi that absorbed most of the impact.
The crowd cheered at first—but as the exchanges dragged on, the sound shifted.
Joren was attacking with force, with speed, with all the polish he had flaunted these past weeks. Yet Dalen endured. His serpent, though unglamorous, was steady, unyielding. He fought like a mountain refusing the storm.
Murmurs began.
"He's holding him off…""Dalen isn't yielding…""Joren's burning a lot of Qi."
Kaelen's lips twitched. The brilliance of Joren's serpent was dazzling—but it was also wasteful. Too much light, too much force, no restraint. Against weaker foes, it crushed quickly. Against Dalen, who refused to break, it began to look excessive.
Joren's frustration mounted. He struck harder, serpent flashing brighter, sand scorching where arcs missed. Dalen grunted with each impact, yet stood. His serpent hissed, steady and low, refusing to unravel.
"Yield," Joren snapped between strikes. "You're wasting my time."
Dalen's laugh was harsh. "If you want victory, take it. Stop demanding it."
The crowd stirred louder, the balance of energy shifting. What had begun as another display of Joren's dominance now resembled a contest—one he wasn't decisively winning.
Kaelen's eyes gleamed. This was it. The first crack in the mirror.
Driven by pride, Joren pushed beyond restraint. His serpent blazed like the sun, Qi burning hot enough that even the juniors shielding their eyes muttered complaints. He launched a final technique, golden coils spiraling with reckless speed toward Dalen's chest.
Too much force. Too much arrogance.
Dalen's serpent didn't crumble. It absorbed, redirected, and snapped outward with a counterstrike that hit Joren squarely in the ribs.
The golden serpent flickered, dimming for a heartbeat.
Gasps exploded from the disciples. Some clapped hands over mouths. Others muttered sharply. Joren staggered a step, only to recover with a furious snarl.
"You dare—!"
Before he could unleash another reckless surge, Elder Su's voice cut across the courtyard.
"Enough!"
The ring froze. Elder Su descended the pavilion steps, robes sweeping, expression tight.
"You forget yourself, both of you," the elder said. "This is training, not blood feud. Step back."
Dalen bowed stiffly, sweat streaking his face but pride steady in his eyes. Joren bowed too, but slower, the corners of his mouth trembling with restrained rage.
The crowd had seen it. They had seen Joren struck, his serpent flicker, his composure waver. The brilliance of his shine had dimmed just enough for doubt to slip in.
Kaelen memorized every flicker of expression in the crowd—awed juniors faltering in their worship, rivals smirking faintly, elders narrowing their eyes.
The crack had formed. Small, but fatal if pressed.
That night, the sect buzzed with whispers.
"Dalen stood against him.""Did you see Joren stagger?""He's strong, but reckless. Too reckless."
Kaelen walked silently among the murmurs, invisible as always. He had said nothing, done nothing. But in the silence of his Soul Palace, his serpent uncoiled and shed another faint layer of husk, its silver sheen deepening.
"Pride," Kaelen whispered to himself. "It always feeds the fire. And fire, left unchecked, consumes itself."
He closed his eyes, listening to the mountain breathe.
The crack in Joren's mirror had begun to spread.
And Kaelen would be ready when it shattered.