The wind whispered low across the temple peaks as twilight swallowed the sky. Shadows lengthened like claws across the weathered stone courtyards, and even the breeze seemed to tread quietly.
Lucius stood at the edge of the Ashen Reflection Grounds, where only those seeking to hone deadly intent trained. The grounds were vast and shrouded in silence, surrounded by obsidian columns—each one etched with the names of those who had perished during fatal spars.
Tonight, the name of another might be written.
"You requested a real opponent," came a voice from behind.
Lucius turned to see Seris, standing with arms folded, a hood drawn over her dark braid. Her eyes, however, gleamed with a predator's sharpness.
"I said I needed to be tested," Lucius replied. "By someone who won't hold back."
Seris stepped forward, her cloak falling to reveal light black armor interwoven with violet runes. A thin blade hung from her back—one Lucius had only ever seen drawn once before, during the cultist siege.
"Then draw your stance, Shadowborn."
Lucius stepped into the ring. His body moved instinctively, the Footwork of the Phantom Shadow Arts flowing beneath his limbs like a second skin. Behind him, the Fang coiled tightly around his forearm in gauntlet form, still dormant, but humming with inner heat.
Seris vanished.
Her footwork was nearly flawless—ghostly. But Lucius had spent weeks honing the first three movements of the Phantom Shadow Art. He twisted, lowering his stance just as Seris reappeared at his blind spot, her blade slicing horizontally.
The Fang's gauntlet flared crimson—blocking her strike with a burst of flame.
"Not bad," Seris whispered, dancing back on air-thin steps.
Lucius didn't reply. His eyes narrowed. Shadows surged beneath his feet.
He activated the third sequence of the Phantom Shadow Arts—Whispering Trace. His body became a blur, zigzagging in a dance that mirrored both predator and prey. He reappeared behind Seris, his palm ablaze.
She pivoted faster than expected, blade slamming into his wrist.
He skidded back. The Fang hissed.
"You're too aggressive," Seris said. "You haven't learned the art of killing without being seen."
Lucius raised his chin. "Then teach me with your blade."
She obliged.
Their spar turned into a storm of movements. Seris's blade left glowing arcs as she spun, leapt, and feinted, striking with the speed of a serpent. Lucius countered with his gauntlet, dodging in low stances and retaliating with flame-laced jabs.
Though their power remained suppressed, their intent was not.
Each strike could kill. Each evasion was life preserved.
Time blurred. The wind grew still, held hostage by the clash of two shadows.
Then came the moment of breaking.
Lucius tapped into the Fourth Phantom Movement: Ghost Step Collapse—where his body rebounded with unnatural momentum. He slid beneath her slash, pivoted mid-roll, and struck her lower back with a flaming elbow.
Seris gasped as the force flung her forward.
Before she could right herself, he was already upon her.
The Fang's gauntlet transformed, briefly becoming the Fang Blade, its single edge crackling with flame. He halted the blade just at her throat.
"Yield," he said, voice calm but eyes alight.
Seris blinked—then smiled.
"Good." She pushed the blade aside and stepped back. "You're learning what it means to be unseen. But more than that… you're learning restraint."
Lucius nodded but said nothing. Inside, his blood roared. The stance, the strike, the footwork—he had begun to blend them.
Fire. Blade. Shadow.
---
Later that night, Lucius sat atop the Temple's outer wall, watching the horizon.
The moon hovered above, casting a silver glow on the cracked earth beyond the mountain ranges.
Below, a familiar figure climbed to join him.
Rengard.
The elder warrior wore no armor tonight. His hands were behind his back, but his eyes were sharp as ever.
"You sparred with Seris."
Lucius nodded. "She nearly cut my arm off."
"She nearly cut off mine once, too," Rengard said dryly. "Means she likes you."
Lucius raised a brow. "You didn't come up here to talk about affection."
"No," Rengard said, sitting beside him. "I came to talk about your next lesson."
Lucius leaned forward. "What is it?"
"The foundation of killing intent."
Lucius's gaze narrowed.
"You already know what it's like to want someone dead," Rengard said. "But that's not the same as mastering killing intent."
Lucius said nothing.
Rengard continued. "There are three levels. The first is wanting someone dead. The second is being willing to kill them without emotion. The third…"
He looked at Lucius carefully.
"…is the moment when your opponent dies before your strike even lands."
Lucius stared at him. "What do you mean?"
Rengard pointed to the horizon. "True killing intent is when your presence erases their will to fight. It's when your shadow becomes their grave."
Lucius breathed in slowly. That sensation—he'd felt something similar while using the First Kill Stance.
"You want me to train that?"
"No," Rengard said. "You're already training it. You just don't know it yet."
Lucius looked at his hands, then at the gauntlet.
"Then what's next?"
Rengard stood. "Tomorrow, you'll face a new opponent. One who won't hesitate to kill."
Lucius rose too. "Another spar?"
"No," the elder replied. "A hunt."
---
The next day, just before dawn, Lucius stood at the mouth of a narrow forest valley. Mist coiled around gnarled trees like spirit serpents. Above, no sun pierced the thick clouds.
Rengard handed him a small wooden token.
"This is your mark. Hide it well. Deep within this valley is another disciple who has been given the same task."
Lucius glanced at the talisman.
"Whoever retrieves the other's token," Rengard said, "wins. But remember—only one may leave unmarked. If you're found, you lose."
Lucius's eyes narrowed. "Who is it?"
Rengard didn't smile. "A disciple of the Phantom Shadow Pavilion."
Lucius's breath hitched.
The Pavilion was a secret assassin faction that trained within the sect's darkest corridors. Their techniques weren't meant for duels.
They were meant for one thing: killing without ever being seen.
---
Lucius moved through the trees in utter silence, each step measured and shallow. The Phantom Shadow Arts pulsed through his veins, guiding him between roots and rock.
Hours passed. The valley held only silence—too much of it.
Suddenly—
Movement.
Lucius spun, dodging just in time to avoid a black needle embedded with toxin. He backflipped, vanishing behind a tree trunk.
His opponent had arrived.
A figure stepped into view: cloaked, masked, wielding twin blades coated in faint purple mist.
The Phantom Shadow disciple tilted their head.
Lucius gritted his teeth.
"So be it."
The forest erupted in motion.
They clashed in the mists, soundless and fierce. Neither spoke. Neither hesitated. Twin shadows wove around each other—phantom footwork against phantom footwork.
Lucius was faster.
But his opponent was emptier—devoid of hesitation, fear, or mercy.
He needed to be something else.
He needed to be deadlier.
As the masked disciple lunged with a killing strike, Lucius dropped into the First Kill Stance.
Stillness.
Intent.
One step.
Draw.
Pivot.
Strike.
The world slowed.
The Fang flared crimson.
Lucius moved—not faster, but with purpose.
The killing blow landed.
The masked disciple gasped, collapsing to their knees. Lucius snatched the token from the figure's belt as they fell unconscious.
Not dead.
But marked.
The valley accepted him as its victor.
---
Rengard said nothing when Lucius returned, bloodied but alive.
He only nodded.
Lucius had passed the first trial of death.
---
That night, as he sat alone beneath the stars again, Seris appeared beside him.
"You lived," she said.
He nodded.
"I killed with a stance I didn't understand," he said.
"You understood enough," she replied. Then her voice softened. "What did it feel like?"
Lucius closed his eyes.
"Like I was meant to do it."
And above them, the moon cast no judgment.
Only light.
The next morning came quietly.
Lucius stood in front of the small shrine near the eastern cliff, where a single candle flickered in the wind. It was the shrine to unnamed disciples—those who had died in silence, in service, or in disgrace. No one prayed here anymore.
But Lucius had come to light the flame.
He placed a piece of black cloth at the shrine's base. It was from the cloak of the Phantom Shadow disciple he had defeated.
They had not spoken a word. He hadn't seen their face. And yet, something inside him ached with each memory of the strike.
"You're not supposed to mourn victories," came a voice behind him.
It was Rengard, arms crossed.
"I'm not mourning," Lucius said quietly. "I'm remembering."
The old warrior nodded.
"That's good. Because if you ever stop remembering the ones you beat, one day you'll forget yourself too."
Lucius didn't respond, but the fire flickered in response to his silent resolve.
Rengard stepped forward and dropped something beside the cloth.
A red-black shard of obsidian.
Lucius blinked. "What is that?"
"A mark," Rengard said. "For every disciple who passes the Shadow Trial. Only nine have survived it in the last two centuries."
Lucius stared at the shard. "You mean to keep count?"
"No," Rengard replied. "I mean so we don't forget who paid the price."
He turned and left.
Lucius remained at the shrine a while longer, before finally walking back to the inner quarters.
---
Later that day, while meditating in his chamber, the Fang suddenly pulsed.
Its glow was not violent.
It was… aware.
Lucius reached out, placing his fingers gently along the ridges of the gauntlet. The metal felt warmer than usual, but also steadier—like it had tasted true killing intent and approved.
A vision flashed behind his eyes.
Two figures.
A twin-blade wielder shrouded in crimson,
And another with blackened armor and a blade of ash.
He gasped and pulled away. The Fang quieted.
He breathed in sharply.
That wasn't memory.
It was a future echo.
The Fang wasn't just evolving with him. It was guiding him toward something.
---
Elsewhere, in the depths of the cult's sacred chambers, a group of elders gathered.
The Masked Figure, their face hidden behind silver metal, kneeled before the High Flame Sigil. His voice echoed low and sure.
"The Shadowborn has awakened more than the First Kill Stance."
Around him, shadows stirred. Elder voices whispered in indecipherable tongues.
One of them leaned forward.
"Is he ready?"
"No," the Masked Figure said. "But the blade has tasted blood. And the shadow has begun to stretch."
"Then the others will come for him."
A cold silence followed.
"Let them come," the Masked Figure said.
His eyes behind the mask shimmered darkly. "He must earn the right to be called a killer of killers."
---
Back in the courtyard, Lucius stood alone beneath the moon once again.
He thought of the shrine, the talisman, and the silent opponent in the forest.
But more than that, he thought of the next step.
"If mastering the shadows was only the beginning…" he whispered to the wind, "…then the next form must be forged in blood."
The Fang shimmered faintly in agreement.
And somewhere in the void of his soul, a new form stirred.
Waiting to be born.
[End of Chapter 16]