Kael sat beneath a twisted blackwood tree, breath calm, eyes closed. The wound on his ribs had sealed, and the bruises on his back had faded. The tomb had granted him legacy, but not mastery. And legacy without mastery was a blade without edge.
Three full days had passed.
In that time, Kael had practiced alone.
The Phantom Dagger Arts weren't just motions. They were a silent doctrine—techniques passed in darkness from killers who once ruled the night. The scroll had revealed its first stage: Flicker Point, a short stab aimed at critical joints, arteries, or soft bones. Simple. Brutal. Fast.
He failed at first.
The movement required balance he didn't yet possess. The dagger spun awkwardly in his grip. Sometimes he struck too slow, sometimes too early. But Kael was patient.
He repeated it again and again, until the blade danced like an extension of his arm.
By the third night, he moved through trees with barely a sound, dagger trailing the wind.
Then came the Shadow Steps.
More elusive than the dagger techniques, Shadow Steps taught not vanishing—but being overlooked. Kael memorized the patterns: how to align with tree shadows, how to pause between breaths, how to retreat into natural stillness. The body was the tool. The environment, the weapon.
He practiced footwork in circles, trained under moonlight, leapt through fog.
And each time, he grew quieter. Lighter.
Even the wild beasts stopped noticing him.
---
By the fourth day, Kael rose.
His beast companion — now sturdier, faster, still young but changed — snorted softly as it followed.
There was no call. No pull from some hidden tomb. His instincts were his own now.
So he chose a direction. South.
South meant away from the tomb, away from the sects, away from the world that hunted people like him.
He didn't expect peace. But he expected motion. And that was enough.
---
Later that day
Leaves rustled nearby. Not wind.
Footsteps.
Kael ducked low behind a root-bridge and narrowed his gaze.
Three men, dressed in mismatched armor, moved through the trees. Bandits. But not the wild, feral kind. These ones were quiet. Coordinated. Their hands stayed close to their blades.
One of them spotted Kael's footprints.
"He's close."
Another laughed softly. "We should offer help. Pretend we're lost. Maybe guide him to the city."
Kael's hand clenched around his dagger.
He didn't need a gift of divine foresight. The intent in their words was enough.
And beneath it… was murder.
He waited.
The first bandit called out:
"Hey! You alone, kid? We got separated from our caravan. Don't worry—we're friendly."
Kael stepped out.
His face was calm.
"No need," he said quietly. "I know where I'm going."
One of the bandits smiled, too wide. "That so? Mind if we travel together? It's dangerous out here."
Kael looked at him. "For you, yes."
Before they could blink, Kael vanished sideways into the shadows. Shadow Step — not perfect, but enough.
The dagger struck.
Flicker Point.
The bandit fell, throat torn open in a clean arc.
The second swung a heavy blade. Kael dodged under it, struck his knee, and used the rebound to drive his dagger upward beneath the ribs.
The third tried to run.
Kael threw the dagger with pinpoint precision.
The hilt struck his temple. He fell like a tree.
Kael exhaled. Three heartbeats. Three deaths.
His beast walked from behind the trees, calm and unbothered.
Kael didn't speak. He cleaned his blade, took a map off one of the corpses, and scanned it.
A name caught his eye, etched in angry red:
> The Land of Chaos.
He frowned.
No borders. No rulers. No sect dared claim it.
Just a gray smudge across the southern rim of the continent, surrounded by warnings:
> "Unclaimed."
"Unwanted."
"Uncontrolled."
A place for the exiled. The outcast. The broken.
A place where no one bowed.
He tucked the map away.
He would not go there yet. But something in his blood recognized it.
One day… he might.