The sect's main hall glittered with gold filigree, the banners of the five inner halls rippling faintly in the autumn wind. Disciples stood in two neat rows along the marbled corridor, whispers carrying like dry leaves. At the far end, beneath the towering emblem of the Azure Flame Sect, Joren waited.
He was supposed to be calm. He wasn't.
The elders had called a review—a "discussion of performance and progression." On paper, it was a chance for the young talents to showcase results from their last mission in the Vale. But everyone knew what it really was: a weighing of future potential, a public measure of who the sect might invest in… and who might fade into footnotes.
And Joren, after his public praise, expected nothing less than to be at the center of it all.
When the doors opened, the elders filed in—a slow-moving wave of power cloaked in formality. Elder Ryn led them, expression carved from stone. Elder Vey followed, sharp-eyed as always, while the lesser instructors trailed behind.
"Begin," Elder Ryn said simply.
The first few disciples were routine—reciting techniques mastered, missions completed. Polite nods followed.
Then came Joren.
He stepped forward with confidence, bowing shallowly. "Elders, I report that during the Vale incursion, my unit encountered two major spirit beasts. I led both offensives personally. The lesser stag fell beneath my serpent's flame, while the greater one—though driven off—suffered heavy wounds. I ensured minimal casualties."
His tone carried no hesitation, but his words lingered too long on I.
Elder Vey's gaze flicked up. "And the rest of your squad?"
"They performed adequately," Joren replied, smile firm. "Each followed my lead."
"Followed," Ryn repeated, his voice like a slow grind of stone. "Not fought beside?"
The silence that followed was thick. Even Joren hesitated, realizing too late the edge in the elder's tone.
"I mean no disrespect," he said quickly, "but leadership requires decisiveness. I acted when hesitation could have cost lives."
The elder's eyes cooled. "Perhaps. But a flame that burns alone consumes its own fuel."
Whispers rippled through the disciples standing behind. Joren's jaw tightened, but he bowed again and stepped back, the confidence in his movements brittle.
Kaelen watched from the back of the room, as still as a shadow against the wall. His serpent lay dormant within, but its awareness pulsed faintly—curious, alert.
He could almost taste Joren's frustration from where he stood. The flick of the man's wrist, the slight tension at his neck. Small cracks forming in the perfect image he'd built.
And Kaelen said nothing. He didn't need to.
Let the flame eat itself.
That afternoon, rumors spread through the sect faster than wildfire.
"Did you hear? Elder Ryn rebuked him—said his pride was eating him alive.""Serves him right, thinking he's untouchable.""Still… he's powerful. No one dares challenge him outright."
Joren caught fragments of it, of course. He walked faster through the courtyards, his serpent flaring hotter than usual, its heat singeing the air. When one junior disciple didn't bow quickly enough, he lashed out—just a flick of flame, but enough to blacken the edge of the boy's sleeve.
"Careful," Joren said softly, voice dangerously calm. "Respect burns less than arrogance."
The irony went unnoticed by him, though not by those watching.
By evening, the sect buzzed with quiet unease.
Elder Vey was seen leaving the council chamber with two other instructors. Their faces were serious, their whispers low. A day later, rumors began of disciplinary restructuring—an internal review of squad assignments, leadership evaluations.
Joren took it as an insult.
"They think I'm being replaced," he muttered to his few remaining loyalists, pacing the courtyard like a caged beast. "After everything I've done for this sect."
One of them, a slim boy with nervous eyes, tried to soothe him. "Maybe it's just protocol—"
"Protocol?" Joren's laugh was harsh. "This sect would still be counting corpses in the Vale if not for me."
The boy fell silent.
From the shadows of the corridor, Kaelen listened.
He'd been passing by, but when Joren's raised voice caught his attention, he paused behind a pillar. The serpent inside him uncoiled slightly, sensing his calm focus.
Joren's rage was fuel—it stirred the air around him, warping his Qi flow. The very same imbalance that Kaelen's Spectral Meridian Insight could trace and learn from, if he so wished.
For a long moment, Kaelen watched. Every gesture, every pulse of flame along Joren's channels told a story: the rhythm of anger, the waste of control.
He could almost see it—a new path forming, not in Joren's strength, but in his flaws.
When Joren finally stormed off, Kaelen exhaled and stepped from the shadows. The courtyard was empty save for the faint scorch marks left on the tiles.
"Pride," Kaelen murmured, eyes faintly reflective in the dark. "So easy to map. So easy to break."
The serpent within him stirred in faint amusement, its scales whispering against the walls of his Soul Palace.
That night, Kaelen returned to his quiet chamber. The sect outside buzzed with gossip and suspicion, but inside his small, dim-lit room, silence was a weapon.
He laid out a scroll on the floor—one he'd copied by hand from memory, the diagrams half-finished. It wasn't from the archives. It was from what he'd seen through Joren: the branching meridian pattern of flame Qi twisted by fury.
Kaelen traced a finger along the lines, his Insight activating softly.
Flame Qi flowed like a serpent too—only most never saw its rhythm. The orthodox disciples channeled it in bursts, fierce but uneven. Kaelen saw the gaps. The waste. The potential to redirect, to absorb rather than merely ignite.
He worked in silence until the first light of dawn.
When he finally leaned back, eyes faintly gleaming, the serpent behind him flickered into view—its scales darker, its outline sharper.
Not growth. Not evolution. Refinement.
The kind born of observation and patience.
By morning, the sect was still humming with talk. Elders were reorganizing squads for upcoming missions. Names were shuffled. New pairings drawn.
When the lists were posted, Kaelen found his quietly in the middle ranks—unchanged, unremarkable. He preferred it that way.
But one detail stood out: Joren's name had shifted. No longer leader of the Flame Wing squad, but co-lead, sharing command with another senior disciple.
The reaction was instant.
Half the disciples whispered. Half watched in silence. Joren himself stared at the notice for a long time before tearing it from the wall and walking off without a word.
Kaelen watched from afar, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
The serpent within him whispered softly—The flame dims.
Kaelen's reply was quiet, certain. "Then the shadows grow deeper."