The storm never truly left the Black Spire.
Even when the sky above cleared, the air hummed with a low vibration — a residue of the beast Ezra had slain. At night, when the moonlight spilled through the cracks of the ancient towers, blue-white motes shimmered in the air like embers from a celestial forge.
Ezra sat cross-legged beneath a broken arch, his hands hovering over the mark that had burned itself into his chest. The Stormfang's essence pulsed faintly there, a lightning-blue brand with jagged edges that seemed alive, crawling with threads of light.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes — the serpent's last moments, the torrent of energy it left behind, the storm that lived within its bones. He was learning to draw from that current, not drown in it.
"Control," he murmured under his breath, feeling the air pressure shift. His qi swirled inward, meeting the beast's essence like two rivers colliding.
The first time he'd tried to absorb it, he'd nearly burned himself from the inside out. But after days of meditation — broken by the occasional fight for survival — he'd begun to understand its rhythm.
He exhaled slowly. The lightning around his arm flickered once, then steadied. His breath became one with the pulse of the Spire.
The frost at his feet melted into steam. Sparks crawled up his spine, tracing veins of light beneath his skin. The power didn't obey him yet — but it listened.
A smile ghosted across his lips.
Progress.
He opened his eyes to the sound of footsteps.
Soft. Careful. Not beasts — men.
Ezra stood, drawing the hood of his ragged cloak tighter as he watched shadows flicker between ruined pillars. Voices drifted toward him — low, cautious, with the kind of tone people used when they'd seen too much and trusted nothing.
"…he's said to have killed a storm-beast alone."
"Ridiculous. No unaligned cultivator below Core can touch such a thing."
"Then explain the thunder that split the Spire three nights ago."
Ezra's heartbeat slowed. They're looking for me.
He stepped back into the shadows, but his footing brushed a loose stone. It clattered — sharp, echoing.
The voices cut off.
In an instant, figures surrounded him — five men and a woman, each wearing travel-worn robes of differing sect colors, their insignias torn or defaced. One carried a spear, another a curved blade shimmering with black qi.
Rogues.
Wandering cultivators — the kind who survived by taking what others couldn't defend.
Their leader, a tall woman with eyes like burnished copper, tilted her head. "You've been living here?"
Ezra didn't answer. His gaze flicked over their weapons, their postures. Wary, hungry, desperate — but not immediately hostile.
"We're not with the clans," the woman said, sensing his tension. "Not anymore. The clans hunt those who don't swear fealty. We gather here… what's left of us."
Ezra's eyes narrowed. "And what do you want from me?"
A short man with a scar over his lip chuckled. "Information, mostly. And maybe that little storm buzzing around you."
Blue sparks crawled briefly across Ezra's fingertips before he clenched his fist, forcing the power back down. "That's not something you can take."
The woman raised a brow. "A temper too? Careful — pride gets you killed faster than poison out here."
Ezra's tone remained calm. "Then you'll die first."
The air snapped.
Lightning arced between the stones as the Stormfang energy surged outward, feeding on his pulse. The rogues stumbled back, shielding themselves as the air filled with ozone and light. The scarred man cursed, gripping his blade tighter — but stopped short when the storm began to spiral around Ezra like a living aura.
For a heartbeat, every eye reflected his glow.
They saw the raw control — the balance between human and beast, intellect and instinct — and something ancient shuddered in recognition.
The copper-eyed woman lowered her weapon slowly. "You… you're not just a survivor, are you?"
Ezra didn't answer. His breath came steady, his presence sharp and dangerous.
Then one of the younger rogues whispered, almost reverently:
"A heaven-sent prodigy…"
The words rippled through the camp like a spark catching dry leaves.
Ezra said nothing, turning toward the jagged horizon where the Spire met the endless plains. He could feel the eyes of the world beginning to find him — sects, clans, and now these rogues whispering names that carried weight.
He wasn't ready to build anything yet — not a clan, not a sect — but every encounter, every enemy, every scrap of power would pave the road toward that inevitability.
He let the last of the lightning fade from his hand and murmured to himself:
"If heaven sends me, then heaven must've run out of mercy."
The storm answered with a low rumble.
And somewhere, beyond the horizon, the world began to take notice.