Light unfurled in Ren's vision like a map being drawn.
A slender tree of washed gold, five main branches dim except for two that shone.
Numbers flickered at the root: 25 PADs.
The pendant at his throat hummed, cool and insistent.
"Who are you?" Ren mouthed, fingers brushing the fossil scale at his collar.
The answer arrived not through air but pushed directly into his mind, a voice like old wood and river stone.
"MEMORY. GUARDIAN. INSTRUCTOR. NOT A NAME. CALL ME… THE ECHO."
The Echo's tone was ancient and amused.
"YOUR AWAKENING WAS ABRUPT. TRAINING IS NECESSARY."
Ren blinked.
The tree did not vanish.
Light shaped into words at the tips of branches, thin script that smelled faintly of ozone.
Two limbs pulsed gold, the other three coasted in pearl-gray.
Each pulse felt like a ledger being written.
"What are those branches?" he asked aloud, voice small in the empty room.
"PATHS OF ASCENSION," the Echo replied. "BRANCHES UNLOCK AFTER USE. YOU HAVE ACCESS TO TWO. SELECT CAREFULLY."
Ren's hand shook as he pointed at the Celestial Body branch.
It answered with a ripple—an image: bone, wind, the cold geometry of the skies.
When Primordial Breath glowed, a soft wind seemed to brush his face within the cabin.
The air tasted like salt and metal.
"How many PADs?" he asked, because numbers made things practical.
"TWENTY-FIVE." The Echo chimed almost fondly. "REWARD FROM PREVIOUS MISSION. USEFUL FOR TRAINING OR TRADES."
A memory flashed: the voice that had promised 25 PADs after the Devourer fell.
The pendant warmed under his thumb like an ember.
Outside, the village murmured.
The interface vibrated with quiet possibility and a thin edge of warning.
"Will it hurt?" Ren asked, a laugh caught in his throat.
"ALL GROWTH DEMANDS LEDGERS," the Echo said. "PAIN IS THE WORLD MEASURING YOUR ACCOUNT."
Ren folded the sleeve of his shirt over his fist and sat cross-legged in the center of the room.
A ray of dawn threaded the window and painted his palm gold.
The choice narrowed into a single lever.
"Kira will laugh if you fall asleep," he muttered, and the sound broke some of the tautness.
"BEGIN THEN," the Echo suggested. "SMALL TASK. FOUNDATION PRACTICE: SUNRISE MEDITATION. FORM: DISCIPLE'S STANCE. DURATION: ONE HOUR; FIVE MINUTES ACTIVE FORM. REWARD: 1 PAD."
Ren sucked in a breath.
The Echo's clarity cut the space like a blade.
He set his jaw and placed both palms on his knees.
Wood creaked beneath him; the pendant lay warm but not demanding.
He tuned to the room: the kettle's somewhere hush, the smell of leftover stew, the distant creak of Li's cart.
The Echo's instruction translated into motion—slow inhale, fill the belly, hold like a stone, exhale like letting rope slip.
"Focus on the sun," the Echo instructed. "Feel its angle. Map the breath to the air's thinness."
Ren breathed with the early light, counting silently.
The first minute found a hollow place where the battle had been.
Images of fog and teeth crowded the edges.
The second minute tightened as a memory of Kira's scream snapped like a wire; his jaw clenched.
"Let the memory pass through like wind," the Echo said softly. "Do not chase it."
Ren obeyed.
Muscles not used to stillness quivered.
A bird called outside; the sound sliced the quiet and settled.
Two minutes.
Three.
Pain thudded at the base of his skull—sharp, white, an unwelcome bell.
He pressed fingertips to his temples and breathed through it.
The Form of Disciple arrived as an awkward muscle, an instinct he could not name.
He held it.
"Five minutes," the Echo counted, calm as tide. "Maintain without collapse."
At three minutes and change, a flare of nausea spiked.
A white lightning bolt of migraine cleaved through his vision.
Hands flew to his face; breath doubled.
The pendant at his chest grew hot and then cooled unevenly.
"Stop," he whispered into the room, voice ragged.
The Echo's tone shifted—not harsh, but clinical.
"PARTIAL FAILURE REGISTERED. FORM HELD THREE MINUTES. PENALTY: NONE. RECOMMEND REST. REWARD: PARTIAL—ZERO POINT EARNING."
Ren sagged backward until the wall caught his shoulders.
A hollow ache unfurled down his spine and into his limbs.
His fingers trembled where he'd held the posture.
The world seemed thicker at the edges.
Kira's knock came then—soft and impatient.
"You alive in there?" she called. "Don't die on me yet, or I'll throw the journal at your head."
"Alive," Ren croaked, voice small and wet with the migraine's aftertaste.
She slipped inside with a bowl and a cloth.
The smell of broth warmed the small room and steadied the raw edge inside his chest.
"Three minutes?" she asked, eyebrows arching as she set the bowl down.
"Three and a half," Ren admitted, tasting defeat like bitter salt.
Kira's fingers brushed his hair, gentle but firm.
"Better than nothing," she said. "You look like you wrestled a storm and lost your hat."
The Echo offered no empathy; it spoke like a ledger.
"REPEAT DAILY. IMPROVEMENT REQUIRED. UNLOCK COST WILL REDUCE ON PERSISTENCE."
Ren pressed his thumb against the pendant, feeling the fossil scale's grooves.
The scars along his jaw tugged like loose threads.
The village beyond his door creaked and mended itself.
Kira helped him sip the broth.
Heat and salt warmed his stomach and steadied his breath.
He let the room shrink to the small, domestic sounds.
The headache uncoiled gradually but lingered like a bruise.
A sharp knock hit the door with the rhythm of urgency.
Ren pushed himself upright, palms catching the table.
Kira moved faster than she spoke and opened the door with a practiced tug.
A young messenger stood on the threshold, pale as ash, chest heaving.
Rain from an earlier cloud still beaded on his cloak; his hands trembled where he clutched a rolled parchment.
"Ren!" the boy gasped, eyes wide and raw. "You—there's men in the square. They're not like the pirates. They wear brass and green and carry the badge of the trading houses."
Kira's mouth became a thin line.
"What do they want?"
The messenger spit a breath and looked at Ren with the kind of fear that carries news heavier than a sack.
He stumbled forward, voice urgent and clipped.
"Ren! Strange men... from the High Cloud Merchant Guild... are in the main square. They are asking for the 'young man with the fossilized scale'."