Morning light spilled through the shattered windows of Solen's workshop. Smoke still curled from the ruined shelves, carrying the bitter tang of burnt spirit essence.
Aren sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, the mark on his chest pulsing faintly. Each beat echoed through his meridians—steady now, powerful. For the first time, his Qi obeyed him completely.
"Your circulation is holding," Solen said, setting a tray of steaming broth beside him. "That pill did its work. But you've become a beacon. Every cultivator in this city felt that surge."
Aren opened his eyes. "Then hiding isn't an option."
Mira hopped onto the table, licking a paw. "It never was. But the smarter question is what you'll do with their attention."
Before Aren could answer, the door burst open. Two figures in bronze armor stepped inside, their cloaks bearing the symbol of the Oxenfort Clan—a flaming ox skull.
The taller of the two, a woman with crimson hair and a scar across her cheek, raised a hand. "By order of Lord Bexar Oxenfort, all cultivators responsible for last night's disturbance are to report to the Grand Arena. Immediate summons."
Solen sighed. "Always dramatic, those Oxenforts. Tell your lord my workshop remains intact—barely."
Her gaze slid to Aren. "And him?"
"My apprentice," Solen replied smoothly. "He'll accompany me."
The woman nodded curtly and left.
When the door closed, Mira's tail lashed. "They're not 'summoning,' they're recruiting. The clan holds trials every decade to pick new disciples. You, boy, are the newest shiny object."
Aren looked at Solen. "Should I refuse?"
The old man poured himself tea, unhurried. "Refuse, and they'll suspect you of hiding power. Accept, and you gain protection—and enemies. But choice is illusion, boy. The world's already watching."
Mira smirked. "You'll love it. Politics and ego, wrapped in silk."
Aren rose, tightening the straps on his gauntlets. "If I'm to be judged, I'll be judged standing."
The Grand Arena
Oxenfort's arena was a ring of black iron the size of a small mountain, its stands crowded with merchants, soldiers, and cultivators. Drums thundered as the city's bell tower struck noon.
Dozens of hopeful disciples stood on the sand, each radiating nervous Qi. At the highest platform sat Lord Bexar Oxenfort, a broad-shouldered man with silver hair bound in a knot and eyes like tempered steel. His aura pressed down on the stadium like weight itself.
Solen stood with the other masters near the edge, arms folded. Mira hid beneath his cloak, whispering to Aren's ear, "Try not to set the arena on fire. Again."
"I'll aim for only half."
Lord Bexar's voice rolled across the arena. "Disciples of Oxenfort, hear me! Today we test courage and control. Step onto the Ascension Platform—climb with your own strength. Each step rejects the weak and rewards the worthy."
The crowd roared approval.
Aren watched as the first contestant approached the glowing staircase that rose into the air. At every step, shimmering pressure increased; at the fifth, the boy trembled, at the sixth, he collapsed. The staircase dimmed, dropping him gently back to the sand.
"Each level equals one's cultivation foundation," Solen murmured. "Body Realm up to ninth, Qi Foundation beyond. Few reach ten."
When his name was called, Aren walked forward through the hush of murmurs.
"That's him—the boy from the explosion.""Look at that mark on his chest…""Condemned?"
He ignored them. The pendant at his throat warmed, a heartbeat echoing his own.
He stepped onto the first stair. Pressure slammed down like a hammer, testing bone and will. He drew a breath, activated the Ember Cycle, and flame rippled faintly across his skin. The pressure eased.
Second step—stronger, heavier. Third—his vision wavered. By the fifth, the air burned. Sweat dripped, sizzling on the glowing stone.
"Come on, boy," Mira whispered, unseen. "Show them."
Aren clenched his fists and took the sixth. The crowd gasped. Flames burst outward, circling him like wings. He took the seventh, then the eighth—light blazed so bright the arena shields flared to contain it.
At the ninth step, the staircase itself shuddered. Thunder cracked above the open roof. The Mark of Heaven on his chest flared crimson.
Solen's expression tightened. "He's pushing too far."
Mira's fur bristled. "He's challenging Heaven in front of half the city."
Aren lifted one foot toward the tenth step. Lightning flashed—Heaven's warning. For a heartbeat, he saw the same golden chains from his vision. He smiled grimly and took the step anyway.
The world went white.
A roar like a thousand storms shook the arena. When the light cleared, Aren stood on the final stair, cloak in tatters, eyes burning with gold flame. The Mark on his chest glowed faintly, then settled.
Silence. Then, thunderous applause.
Lord Bexar rose slowly, clapping once. "Welcome, Aren Vale. The Oxenfort Clan recognizes your strength."
Mira muttered, "And now they own you."
Aren stared up at the storm clouds that still churned above. He could feel the Heavens watching, patient, waiting for his next step.
He bowed to the lord, voice steady. "Then let this strength serve until it burns brighter than the sky."
End of Chapter 9 – The Invitation