The quiet that greeted Kael as he stepped from the training grounds was unsettling.
His breath still steamed from the final burst of exertion. The chamber he left behind was scorched black and glowing faintly, the stone walls clawed by spiraling arcs of flame and lightning. Maelstorm Overburn had taken a toll—but he'd done it. The breakthrough had finally come.
Storm Essence still pulsed faintly through his arms, but now, woven into it, was a deeper, heavier undertone—the fire he'd long neglected. Flame no longer waited passively in his arsenal; it surged beside the storm, rising and falling with each breath, lining his veins with a molten thrum.
His limbs were sore, his Essence half-spent, but his steps felt sharper, heavier. He no longer moved like wind and lightning alone. Now, there was weight to him—presence.
Kindle, 2nd Flame.
He had advanced.
Not because of an evaluation. Not because someone declared it. But because he'd earned it—through exhaustion, understanding, and sheer will.
As Kael crossed the outer halls of the guild stronghold, a runner intercepted him, breathless and pale.
"Kael—Guildmaster wants to see you. Now."
He didn't hesitate.
—
The meeting chamber's air was heavy.
Kael stepped through the wide stone doors and immediately sensed the tension. Commander Theron stood at the head of the room, arms crossed. Beside him were two other high-ranking officials—one from the guild's intelligence arm, and another from internal security.
"Close the door," Theron said.
Kael did.
Theron didn't waste time. "The squad we sent to investigate the black sigil and that… thing you reported in Dravhallow hasn't checked in. It's been five days."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Five Ignis-ranked adventurers."
"All specialists. Essence trace markers, communications links, rune wards. All of it—gone. No signal. No magic echoes. We've even sent scouting crows into the Peaks. Nothing returns."
Kael stayed silent for a moment. "You think they're dead."
"We think something found them," said the intelligence officer. "Something that didn't want them to return."
The table was strewn with maps—updated tracking lines, marked zones of Essence interference, and a red-inked spiral around the area Kael had originally fled from.
"Did they go to the exact coordinates I gave?"
"They followed your route, down to the sigil-marked slope."
Kael's thoughts raced. He remembered the feeling—the pressure—that thing's presence had exerted even from a distance. It wasn't a Packlord. It wasn't even Abyssborn.
It had been wrong.
Twisted.
And now it had consumed a search team powerful enough to crush cities.
Kael exhaled. "When do we move?"
Theron fixed his gaze on him. "We don't. Not yet. Not until we understand what we're dealing with."
"And how long will that take?"
"As long as it needs to. We can't afford another loss like that. For now, you're to stay close to Elandor."
Kael's jaw tensed.
"Understood."
—
That night, Kael sat in one of the outer terraces overlooking the city. The moon was low. Storm clouds gathered faintly in the distance. He watched the wind dance across the rooftops as his hand pulsed with quiet heat.
Maelstorm Overburn.
He flexed his fingers. He'd pushed his limits to perfect the technique—fusing flame into the storm, layering internal bursts with external detonations. Now, when he moved, it wasn't just speed or force. It was devastation layered in technique.
The blitzes came faster. The strikes hit harder. And the finish—the spiraling strike at the end—now ended with a searing vortex of heat and shockwave, a dome of scorched wind that shattered everything in its radius.
But even with that power—he couldn't stop what happened in Dravhallow.
He could feel it. The silence from the search team wasn't just tragedy—it was the beginning of something.
He stood, shadows flickering beneath his boots as lightning traced across his skin in faint, idle arcs.
Whatever it was… it was growing.
And Kael knew he'd have to face it.l