The city's first light barely pierced the mist when Kael returned to the clearing.
The tavern, the streets, the noise—none of it reached him now. All that existed was the earth beneath him, the air around him, and the pulse of life that his master had called Essence.
The clearing was quiet, ringed by ancient trees whose bark bore the scars of storms and time. Dew clung to the grass, and the mist curled low, veiling the world in a hush that felt sacred. The cursed sword leaned against a gnarled tree nearby, its dark metal pulsing faintly, like it resented the calm Kael was trying to cultivate.
The old man stood at the center of the clearing, his silhouette sharp against the pale morning fog. His cloak stirred in the breeze, and his eyes—steel-blue and unyielding—watched Kael with the patience of someone who had seen centuries pass.
"Today," he said, "we begin the core."
Kael approached, his steps slow, deliberate. His body still ached from the battles—bruised ribs, a broken arm, wounds that throbbed with every heartbeat. He felt like a patchwork of pain stitched together by stubbornness.
"The body has natural conduits for Essence," the old man continued. "Most never awaken them consciously. Some never can. You… are neither most nor impossible. But it will be painful."
Kael nodded, jaw tight. "What do I have to do?"
"Let's heal you first, shall we?"
The old man stepped forward and placed a hand atop Kael's head. His palm was warm, rough with calluses, and then—
A rush of warmth surged through Kael's body. It was like stepping into sunlight after a long winter. The pain in his ribs faded. His broken arm straightened with a crackle of energy. Cuts sealed, bruises vanished, and the tension in his muscles melted like snow.
Kael gasped, staring at his hands. "What kind of sorcery is this?"
"Healing magic, you idiot," the old man muttered, clicking his tongue. "I'll teach you that too. Eventually."
Kael flexed his fingers, marveling at the absence of pain. Healing magic. He hadn't known such a thing was possible. Not like this. Not so… complete.
But the awe faded quickly. He hadn't come here for comfort.
"You will open your conduit," the old man said, stepping back. "The Essence must flow into a single point inside your body. This is the foundation of your cultivation—the core. If it fractures, you will be crippled. If you force it, you may die. Patience, control, and awareness. That is the only way."
Kael sat cross-legged on the damp earth. He pressed the necklace at his chest—a small silver locket, worn smooth by years of touch. It was his anchor. His reason. His vow.
The master crouched beside him, laying a hand gently on Kael's shoulder.
"Sense the energy around you. The flow of the world. The pulse of life. Draw it inward, but do not rush it. Your body will resist. Your emotions will resist. Fear, grief, anger—they will all try to push the Essence away."
Kael closed his eyes.
He let the city fade. The tavern fade. The cursed sword's hum fade… almost. It was still there, coiled in his blood, whispering promises of power and destruction. He clenched his fists. Not yet. Not now.
The old man's voice was steady, almost soothing. "Focus on your center. The space between your lungs and your stomach. That is where your core will form. Picture it. Feel it. Cradle it."
Time blurred.
Kael breathed slowly, deeply. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his breath, the beat of his heart, the stillness of the clearing. He reached outward—not with hands, but with something deeper. A sense. A thread.
He felt it.
The Essence.
It was everywhere. In the wind that rustled the leaves. In the soil beneath him. In the mist that kissed his skin. It was the breath of the world, ancient and infinite.
He reached for it.
It resisted.
His body tensed, his chest tightening as if something inside him refused to open. Pain lanced through his ribs. His muscles spasmed. The cursed sword throbbed violently, reacting to the Essence like a predator scenting prey.
Kael gritted his teeth. Sweat poured down his face. His hands trembled.
"Good," the old man murmured. "Now draw it inward. Let it accumulate, but keep it contained. Do not let it spill into your limbs. Not yet."
Kael's mind screamed. His grief surged, raw and untamed. He saw Elara's face—her smile, her courage, the way she had stood between him and death without hesitation. The memory burned.
He inhaled sharply, letting the pain anchor him. Letting it sharpen his focus instead of tearing him apart.
The Essence flickered.
Then pulsed.
Then surged.
A warmth bloomed in his chest. Not gentle. Not kind. It was pressure. It was fire. It was a storm trying to be born.
Kael gasped, his back arching. The energy coalesced, swirling, condensing. He felt it—dense, pulsating, fragile. A sphere. A core.
It was blue, streaked with silver. Like moonlight on deep water.
"Hold it," the old man said. "Do not let it collapse. It will scream. It will demand release. But you must restrain it. You must be stronger than it, or it will overwhelm you."
Kael's vision blurred. His body burned. The Essence clawed at him, wild and primal. The cursed sword quivered, its hum rising to a shriek, as if it wanted to devour the core, to claim it.
Kael ignored it.
He focused.
He clenched his jaw, his fists, his soul.
And he held.
The core stabilized.
Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But enough.
Minutes—or hours—later, Kael collapsed, gasping. The core glowed faintly beneath his skin, a soft light pulsing in rhythm with his heart.
The old man placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady.
"You've formed it," he said. "Your nascent core. Not stable yet, but formed. Tomorrow, we begin circulation. You will learn to move Essence through your channels, to store it, to use it without breaking yourself."
Kael nodded weakly, clutching his chest. The necklace pressed against him like a promise, a memory, a vow. The sword hummed still, dark and insistent, but now he felt something else—a spark of control. Fragile. But real.
"Rest," the old man said with a rare smile. "You have survived the first trial. But this… this is only the beginning. Good job."
Kael closed his eyes.
Exhausted.
But in his chest, the core pulsed.
And with it, a new fire.
He would grow stronger.
For himself.
For her.
And one day, the cursed sword would serve him—not the oth.er way around.