Chapter Three – The Cloaked Elder
The abandoned courtyard was still and cold under the light of the Scarlet Ember Moon. Jesse Jordan gripped his cracked sword tightly, sweat trickling down his temple. Across from him, the cloaked figure advanced slowly, each step deliberate, echoing like a drumbeat in Jesse's chest.
Up close, the man's aura pressed against Jesse like a mountain. His breath shortened, his knees trembled, and for a moment, he feared his body would collapse under the weight.
The stranger's voice cut through the silence, low and commanding.
"Boy… what have you stumbled upon?"
Jesse swallowed, his lips dry. He could not reveal the jade slip. If word spread, the others would tear him apart for it. Yet if he lied outright, this man might kill him on the spot.
His mind raced. He forced his voice to remain steady.
"I… I merely meditated. By luck, I touched a faint thread of qi."
The cloaked man tilted his head, eyes glinting beneath the shadowed hood. "Luck, you say?" He raised a hand. Suddenly, the air shifted. Qi thickened, swirling like a storm around Jesse. Invisible pressure bore down on him.
Jesse gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to buckle. The cracked sword vibrated faintly, its jagged edge humming as if in protest.
The man's gaze flicked to the weapon. A faint smile curled on his lips. "That broken blade… hm. Interesting. It reacts to you."
Jesse's heart lurched. He noticed!
The elder circled him like a predator sizing up prey. "You've been mocked, haven't you? Beaten, abandoned, left to rot. Yet in the shadow of despair, sometimes fate awakens. Tell me, Jesse Jordan—do you wish to rise?"
The words struck deep. Rise? The very thing Jesse longed for, yet had never dared voice aloud. His fingers tightened around the sword's hilt.
"…Yes," Jesse whispered, his voice trembling but resolute.
The cloaked man stopped in front of him, studying him intently. "Then listen well. Power never comes freely. To climb, you must bleed. To ascend, you must endure pain that will shatter your body, your spirit, your very soul. Do you dare accept such torment?"
Jesse's chest rose and fell sharply. His entire life had been torment already—humiliation, beatings, scorn. If more pain could give him strength, then so be it.
"I dare," he said firmly.
The elder's eyes gleamed. "Good."
Suddenly, he thrust his palm against Jesse's chest.
A surge of raw qi exploded into Jesse's body. He screamed, collapsing to his knees as the energy tore through his fragile meridians. It felt like fire ripping him apart from within. His vision blurred, veins bulging along his skin as if they might burst.
"Endure!" the man's voice thundered. "Harness it! Guide it! Use the thread you formed to seize this flow!"
Jesse gasped, sweat pouring down his face. His mind seized on the imprints of the Ninefold Void Sutra, desperately channeling the raging energy. Slowly, painfully, he guided it through the pathways carved hours earlier. Each second felt like an eternity.
The broken sword pulsed faintly in his hand, as though lending strength.
Minutes—or perhaps hours—passed. Finally, the rampaging qi settled, absorbed into Jesse's dantian. His body sagged forward, exhausted, but alive. His chest glowed faintly with a second spark of light.
"The Second Thread…" he whispered hoarsely.
The cloaked elder withdrew his hand, watching with interest. "Remarkable. You survived."
Jesse panted, barely able to lift his head. "W… who are you?"
The man pulled back his hood at last. His hair was streaked with silver, his eyes sharp as blades. Despite his age, his presence radiated danger.
"I am Elder Morris," he said simply. "One of the sect's shadows. Few know of my existence, fewer still have seen my face. And now, you bear my mark."
Jesse's eyes widened. A faint burning sensation spread across his chest. Pulling his robe aside, he saw a strange sigil glowing faintly over his heart—a mark etched by Morris's qi.
Morris's expression darkened. "You will train in secret. Not a word of this to anyone. If you betray me…" His gaze sharpened, icy as death. "…you will vanish without a trace."
Jesse clenched his fists. Though fear prickled his skin, he forced himself to nod. "I understand."
Morris studied him for a moment longer, then turned to leave. "Prepare yourself. When the Silent Frost Moon arrives, I will test you again. Fail, and you will die."
His figure melted into the shadows, vanishing as though he had never been there.
Jesse collapsed back onto the cracked tiles, trembling from head to toe. His chest still glowed faintly, proof of the second thread he had formed. His body ached, but his heart blazed with something new—hope.
He whispered into the night, "Elder Morris… fate… legacy. No matter what it takes, I'll climb higher. Higher than any of them."
The cracked sword lay beside him, its jagged surface glimmering faintly in response.
Yet even as he vowed, distant voices stirred elsewhere in the sect. Disciples whispered of strange energies, elders exchanged wary glances, and in the shadows of the mountains beyond, unseen eyes watched the sect's rising turbulence.
The world had noticed Jesse Jordan's first step onto the path. And the storm was only beginning.