The duel lingered long after the sand had settled. By nightfall, the story had already splintered into a dozen versions, carried on hushed voices through courtyards, dining halls, and cultivation caves.
Some swore Dalen had struck Joren clean across the chest. Others insisted Joren had only stumbled by accident. A few whispered that Elder Su's interruption had been deliberate—meant to protect Joren from humiliation.
The truth mattered less than the whispers themselves.
For months, Joren's rise had felt inevitable. He was the shining serpent, the favored disciple, the one everyone pointed to when they spoke of the sect's future. His victories had been so complete that doubt had no foothold. But doubt had found its first crack, and the mountain did not stay silent.
Kaelen kept his head down the next day, training in the shadow of the northern cliffs. He listened more than he spoke.
"He burned too much Qi—did you see?" one disciple muttered while gathering herbs."Dalen didn't even use his full strength," another replied. "If the elders hadn't stopped it—""Careful." A third glanced around. "Speak too loudly and you'll earn Joren's wrath."
Kaelen bent over his work, lips pressed thin, hiding the faint curl of satisfaction in his chest. He didn't need to stoke the rumors—they spread on their own, fed by the eagerness of those who had once bowed too quickly.
What mattered was how the elders would respond.
That evening, the sect gathered in the main hall for lecture. The stone chamber glowed with lantern light, pillars carved with serpents coiling skyward. Elders took their places at the dais, disciples kneeling in rows below.
Kaelen sat near the back, quiet as always, eyes fixed not on the speaker but on the subtle exchanges between the higher seats.
Elder Su, stern and uncompromising, barely glanced at Joren. Elder Ren, who had once praised Joren as a prodigy, leaned in close to whisper with another master, his expression unreadable. Elder Huo's gaze swept the hall like a hawk, lingering longer than usual on Dalen.
The lecture droned on about balance of Qi and responsibility of strength, but Kaelen caught the undercurrents. The duel had unsettled them. If Joren faltered, who would the elders throw their weight behind?
It wasn't him—not yet. No one looked at Kaelen twice. That was his strength.
After dismissal, disciples spilled into the outer courtyard. Joren strode ahead of them, shoulders stiff, his golden serpent coiled so tightly it seemed to shimmer with barely contained fury. No one dared step in his path.
Dalen emerged from the side, his slate serpent calm, his expression as solid as stone. Their eyes met for a heartbeat—silent, sharp, unyielding.
The crowd tensed, but neither spoke. The mountain air hung thick until Joren turned sharply away, robes snapping.
Kaelen exhaled slowly. He had seen the tightening of Joren's fists, the twitch at the edge of his jaw. Rage boiled under the surface, and rage clouded judgment.
Good.
That night, Kaelen retreated to his quiet chamber. The Soul Palace pulsed faintly inside him, its silver serpent slowly stretching within its husk.
He replayed the day's images—the way whispers caught fire in corners, the way elders measured glances, the way Joren's arrogance began to strain under the weight of expectation.
The sect was a mountain, yes, but mountains shifted. A single crack, if left unchecked, could split stone.
And Kaelen, hidden in shadow, would be there to guide the split.
He sat cross-legged, drawing in Qi. His breath slowed, his serpent coiled, and for a moment, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
The mirror had cracked. Soon, it would shatter.