The courtyard still carried the weight of Joren's words days after the council. Disciples whispered in corners, elders spoke more carefully, and the once-celebrated flame serpent was no longer untouchable.
For Kaelen, it was the first true breath of air since arriving in the sect.
The eyes that had always skimmed over him continued to do so, perhaps even more now that Joren's presence demanded scrutiny. That suited him well. Shadows were fertile soil if one knew how to grow within them.
Kaelen's nights became longer.
By day, he trained with the rest—running drills, sparring, bowing his head like every other quiet disciple. He made sure to stumble on occasion, to breathe harder than necessary, to let Joren's followers sneer at him. The act was a shield, and he wore it carefully.
But when night fell, and the sect quieted under the hush of cicadas, Kaelen slipped away.
The archive halls were closed to common disciples after sundown. Yet doors were only barriers for those unwilling to look closer. Kaelen had studied the guards' patrols, the timing of the wards' dim shimmer. The sect relied on loyalty and reputation to protect its secrets, not realizing how easily those could be skirted by someone patient enough.
And Kaelen was nothing if not patient.
The first night he entered, the stone hall smelled of dust and ink. Shelves rose like cliffs, stacked with bamboo scrolls and faded tomes. He held his breath as he passed rows labeled Qi Fundamentals, Battle Forms, Sect Records. The temptation was overwhelming.
But Kaelen knew greed was a trap.
Instead, he went straight for the lower shelves—basic manuals, techniques often dismissed by ambitious disciples. He unrolled them one by one, his eyes glowing faintly as the Spectral Meridian Insight stirred.
Lines of light appeared in his vision, ghostly meridians etched across paper, showing how Qi would flow if one followed these techniques. Where another would only see diagrams and phrases, Kaelen saw living maps.
He traced them silently, memorizing not only the forms but the flaws, the wasted turns where energy bled away, the sharp hooks where it could snap back and wound the user.
Even the simplest breathing method, when stripped and rebuilt, revealed a dozen new doors.
He smiled faintly, rolling the scrolls back into place. The serpent in his Soul Palace stirred, faint light flickering across its scales. It understood.
The second night, he dared higher shelves.
Here, the air was sharper, the records older. These were techniques that required elder approval to learn, reserved for those who had already earned their place. Kaelen let his fingers hover over them before pulling one at random: The Radiant Fang Technique.
He sat cross-legged in the aisle, the scroll open before him, and let the Insight burn through his vision. The paths unfolded—dozens of them, all intertwining, forming a lattice of light that shimmered like a web.
It was beautiful, but flawed.
Radiant Fang relied on explosive bursts of Qi, channeled with sharp precision, yet the technique bled power at the joints. With adjustments, Kaelen could see how one might redirect the flow, weave it tighter, create a strike that not only pierced but tore from within.
His serpent hissed in the Soul Palace, shedding a faint ripple of silver.
Kaelen leaned back against the shelves, chest rising with slow, steady breaths. Each secret was a step higher, a brick laid in a tower no one else could see.
But secrecy had its cost.
On the fourth night, footsteps echoed in the archive. Not the slow patrol of a guard, but the measured tread of someone who belonged here. Kaelen froze, scroll still in hand, his serpent pressing tight against the walls of his Soul Palace.
The figure entered, carrying a lantern. A young woman, robes of pale blue, her expression calm but sharp. She didn't glance around nervously—she knew the archive's halls well. She set her lantern on a table and unrolled a scroll with practiced ease.
Kaelen remained in shadow, hardly daring to breathe. His Insight flickered, itching to trace her movements, but he forced it still. Too much risk.
Minutes passed like hours.
At last, she rolled her scroll shut and left.
Kaelen's heartbeat slowed, though sweat still clung to his back. Whoever she was, she had not come on a whim. Another seeker, perhaps—someone with privilege enough to walk these halls at night.
He would have to be more careful.
By the week's end, Kaelen had gathered more than scraps. He had rewoven three sect techniques into something leaner, sharper. One was a breathing method that stabilized his Qi channels far faster than the sect drills. Another was a blade technique whose outward slash masked a hidden second strike.
The third was the most dangerous: a defensive formation meant to shield, but with his changes, it could rebound force instead.
He tested them in secret, far from prying eyes, deep in the gorge where the sect's noise never reached. Each attempt left him trembling, skin damp, meridians stinging from strain. But progress was steady, undeniable.
And as his serpent coiled and shed again within the Soul Palace, its form grew clearer, its scales no longer faint light but shadowed silver.
When Kaelen returned to the training yards, he bowed his head, let Joren's followers jeer, let his own sweat mix with dust as though he were no different than the others.
But beneath his calm mask, knowledge coiled sharp as a blade.
Joren's flame might draw every gaze.
But Kaelen was stitching a weapon in silence—one no elder or rival would see until it was too late.