The morning broke strangely quiet.
For a place like Dawncrest Sect — usually humming with the sounds of training, sparring, and spirit beasts roaring in distant groves — silence was unnatural. Even the wind that generally sang through the mountain pines seemed to hesitate, heavy with a scent Kaelen recognized instantly.
Burnt air.
He stood at the edge of the training field, his robes brushed with dew, the faint sheen of sweat on his neck from an early morning drill. The others around him murmured, eyes fixed on the horizon. A column of faint smoke coiled upward from beyond the southern peaks, too far to be a training accident, too steady to be a wildfire.
The instructors called for calm. But even the elders' composure felt brittle.
Kaelen's serpent spirit stirred restlessly within him — a faint whisper in his mind, a flicker of unease rippling through his soul sea. That energy… familiar, it seemed to hiss, words half-formed, more instinct than thought.
He tightened his jaw. "Joren," he murmured under his breath.
It had been weeks since the arrogant prodigy vanished on his so-called solo cultivation trial. The sect had let him go without protest — a "genius in self-tempering," they'd called it. Now, as that column of smoke rose like a warning banner, whispers spread like wildfire.
"Did something happen to him?""They say he was near the Crimson Vale…""A beast tide?""Or worse — demonic activity."
Kaelen said nothing. He stared at the smoke until the bell rang, calling them to assembly.
Inside the main hall, the atmosphere was taut. The elders sat in a half-circle formation, their faces carved from stone, voices sharp and clipped as they discussed reports.
"The southern watch posts have gone silent," one said. "Flames unlike natural fire — Qi-corrupted, possibly cursed."
Another elder frowned. "A remnant array from the old wars?"
"No. Too recent. Someone made that blaze."
Kaelen stood among the gathered disciples near the back, posture straight, eyes lowered. It wasn't his place to speak — not yet. But he listened. Carefully.
Then, one voice cut through the noise like a blade through silk.
"The last recorded presence in that region," said Elder Ravin, his tone grave, "was Disciple Joren Valen."
The room stirred instantly. Gasps, murmurs, disbelief.
"That's impossible," someone said. "Senior Joren wouldn't—"
"—wouldn't use demonic flame? Wouldn't tamper with forbidden scripture?" another retorted. "He did vanish for a reason."
The hall erupted into argument until Elder Ravin slammed his staff once against the floor. "Enough."
Silence fell.
"Whether he fell to corruption or awakened something foul, it makes no difference now," the elder said. "We must confirm it. We will send scouting parties. Quietly."
Kaelen felt a faint chill crawl up his spine. Quietly. That word always meant danger.
By nightfall, the sect was in motion — but subtly so. No public alarms, no declarations of a rogue disciple. Just carefully chosen scouts sent under the guise of a field exercise.
Kaelen stood outside the mission pavilion when the summons came.
"Stormveil," a senior disciple called. "Report to Squad Three. You'll accompany the southern detachment as secondary support."
He nodded, concealing the flicker of understanding that passed through his eyes. Of course they'd send him — the quiet, unassuming one, unnoticed enough to slip through shadows.
As he walked down the stone steps, he caught faint whispers among the other disciples.
"Did you hear? It's a containment mission.""Containment?""Yeah — as in, whatever's down there might spread."
Kaelen didn't need further explanation. He'd already seen what uncontrolled Qi corruption could do. The stench that lingered in the wind wasn't of a mere beast — it was of a power that had consumed its wielder.
Hours later, beneath the thin veil of a moon half-swallowed by clouds, Squad Three descended into the southern ridges.
The once-green slopes were gone — replaced by blackened soil, ash drifting like slow snow. The earth still radiated warmth under their boots, and every few steps, a faint crackle of red shimmered under the surface before dying out.
Kaelen walked near the back, scanning everything. His serpent spirit flitted along his meridian lines, its awareness expanding with his own. He could feel the residue — thick, intoxicating, hungry.
When they reached the heart of the devastation, one of the scouts gagged.
There, half-buried in molten rock, lay the twisted remnants of what had once been spirit beasts. Their cores shattered. Their Qi drained dry. Not devoured by hunger — absorbed.
Kaelen crouched beside one. His fingers brushed the edge of the cracked core, and his serpent hissed faintly in his mind.
Familiar flame. Wrong master.
His heart pounded once, slow and heavy. "Joren," he whispered.
The squad made camp at the edge of the burn zone, under the hollowed remains of an ancient cedar. The leader — a broad-shouldered man named Ren — set guards and pulled out the mission slate, checking the sigils that kept their presence masked.
Kaelen sat quietly by the fire, watching the embers twist upward. The flames seemed too bright here, as if feeding on something unseen.
Ren noticed him staring. "You're Stormveil, right? Heard you're one of the few alchemy aides who can track Qi signatures."
Kaelen nodded faintly. "Something like that."
Ren hesitated. "Then tell me — this residue, does it feel… alive to you?"
Kaelen's gaze shifted toward the distance where the land still glowed faintly red. "It's worse than that," he said softly. "It's listening."
Ren frowned. "Listening to what?"
Kaelen's serpent stirred again, coiling tighter within him, its voice low and uneasy.
Not what. Who.
That night, Kaelen didn't sleep.
While the others rested, he walked quietly to the edge of camp, where the blackened stones pulsed faintly under moonlight. His serpent flickered through his meridians, drawing in faint threads of corrupted Qi.
He saw it then — the lingering pattern beneath the ash. The signature of Joren's flame, twisted but unmistakable, etched into the ground like a brand.
But something else was nested inside it — another presence. Vast. Ancient. Watching.
Kaelen's pupils constricted. "So that's what you've become…"
He knelt, tracing the rune's edge. A faint echo surged through him — not sound, but sensation. The feeling of devouring heat, of something burning not just Qi, but soul.
He withdrew his hand instantly, breath sharp.
If the sect found out the truth — that their prodigy had become a host to something beyond their control — chaos would follow.
He straightened slowly, looking back toward the campfire where his squad slept.
The first spark of resolve kindled in his chest.
If the sect's brightest flame had turned into a devouring fire… then the only way to survive the coming storm was to learn how to walk through it without being burned.
Kaelen's serpent spirit hissed softly in agreement, its scales shimmering faintly in his soul sea.
And for the first time since his rebirth, Kaelen realized — his path wasn't merely about concealment anymore.
It was about preparation.
Because whatever had claimed Joren's soul… was still hungry.
And it was moving closer.