The morning after the squad reassignments, the sect felt different.
On the surface, everything carried on as usual: disciples training in the courtyards, the clang of practice weapons, the faint hum of spiritual energy vibrating through the air. But beneath that rhythm, something ugly had begun to stir.
Whispers had sharpened. Smiles had turned thinner. And the name Joren now carried a weight that wasn't admiration—it was curiosity mixed with fear.
In the western courtyard, the man himself stood in silence before a ring of flame.
His serpent's fire hissed low, wrapping around his arms like molten chains. His breaths came slow but deliberate—each exhale heavier than the one before. His Qi pulsed wildly, too uneven for discipline, too alive to be ignored.
Across from him, three disciples knelt. His old squad.
"You've trained under me for two years," Joren said softly, almost kindly. "Tell me—what do you think this demotion means?"
One of them, a young man named Faye, swallowed. "Elder Ryn said—"
"I didn't ask what Ryn said." Joren's voice cut like a whip. "I asked what you think."
Faye hesitated. "It means… the elders want balance. They think your command should be shared."
Joren's smile barely moved. "Balance."
The fire around his wrists flared once, bright enough to make them flinch. "Balance is for those afraid of heights."
His serpent flared behind him, scales gleaming like burning glass. The disciples trembled under its heat.
"I earned every spark of this position," Joren said, stepping closer. "Every scar. Every victory. And now the elders want to clip my wings to appease lesser talents. Tell me, does that sound fair?"
None of them dared to answer.
Joren exhaled, the flames dimming slightly. Then, with a sudden burst of motion, he flung a ball of fire into the air—it split into three trails, landing at their feet. The energy twisted but didn't explode.
"Train harder," he said, turning away. "If the sect thinks I can be replaced, then I'll make sure the next comparison burns them to ash."
By noon, everyone had heard about the outburst.
A few claimed Joren had nearly burned his squad alive. Others swore the elders had seen it and done nothing. But the truth didn't matter anymore—what mattered was the smell of fear that clung to the air.
Even in the dining hall, the atmosphere had curdled.
Kaelen sat at his usual corner, silent, his meal untouched. Across the hall, Joren entered with his loyal few. The crowd parted for him like reeds before a storm.
Their eyes met for a brief, electric moment.
Kaelen's calm face gave nothing away. Joren's held too much.
Recognition.Resentment.Challenge.
Then the moment passed, but the damage was done.
That evening, the elders met again in the council chamber.
"His temper worsens," Elder Vey said, her tone clipped. "Discipline him before he becomes a problem."
Elder Ryn frowned. "He is a problem. But he's still useful. The sect can't afford to break its strongest flame before the next round of trials."
"So we let him burn out his own control? And when he hurts someone?"
Ryn looked toward the window, the light casting half his face in gold. "Then we'll have someone ready to step in."
"Kaelen?"
He didn't answer, but the faint crease at the corner of his eye was enough.
Meanwhile, Joren was not resting.
He trained until sweat ran down his spine, until the stones beneath his feet scorched black. Every technique, every pattern he'd once perfected felt wrong now—too small, too restricted. He wanted power that wouldn't bend to politics, wouldn't answer to the whispers of men behind polished desks.
And in the silence between strikes, another voice began to answer.
It wasn't his serpent. It was deeper. Older. Something that pulsed in the heat of his veins when he pushed too far.
They fear you because you outgrew them, it said, faint but unmistakable.So stop trying to fit their shape.
Joren straightened, breathing hard, a faint tremor in his hands. He looked down at his serpent—its once-golden flames now licked faintly crimson.
"Maybe you're right," he whispered. "Maybe I've been too careful."
The serpent didn't answer, but the air thickened, responding to his ambition.
That night, fire bloomed in the outer training fields.
It started small—a duel between disciples that went too far. But then came another spark, and another, until half the field was lit in golden flame. Joren stood at the center, chest heaving, eyes bright with something too wild to be pride.
His opponent—one of the co-leads recently assigned to his squad—lay on the ground, half-conscious, the ground beneath him seared black.
Elder Vey arrived moments later, fury and power radiating from her steps. "Joren!"
He turned slowly, flames still curling off his skin. "He challenged my authority."
"You nearly burned him alive!"
"He drew first," Joren said evenly. "I simply answered in kind."
Her Qi surged, a wall of cold pressure slamming into him. "Enough arrogance! You're suspended from field duty until further notice!"
The flames around him dimmed, but his eyes did not.
"You'll regret that," he said quietly, the words too calm to be a threat—yet everyone who heard them shivered.
By dawn, Joren was gone.
No announcement. No trace in his quarters save for scorch marks along the wall and a single line burned into the floorboards:
The flame obeys no leash.
Elder Ryn's expression when he saw it was unreadable. "Find him," he told the guards. "Before his pride draws enemies to our door."
But Kaelen—watching the commotion from a distance—already knew what it meant.
Joren wasn't running. He was preparing.
And when he returned, it wouldn't be as a disciple seeking recognition.
It would be as something far more dangerous.