The flame banners swayed in the wind like restless spirits. The courtyard had been reshaped into a wide, circular arena—half stone, half burning sand. The Trial Grounds.
All servants were forbidden from standing here.
But today, Velan stood in the center.
Dozens of clan warriors and nobles circled above on the terraces. A sea of red and gold robes watched him, some amused, some disgusted. A few—just a few—watched in curiosity.
Thiruvadi sat nearest to the Flame Pillar, smiling with cruel expectation. At his side, Kayalvizhi observed with her arms crossed, unreadable.
A gong rang.
From the northern gate strode Velan's opponent.
Three, not one.
Not warriors, but flame disciples—trainees of the Aathirai clan with real cultivation, trained techniques, and spiritual cores. Each wore the crimson and bronze sash of the Outer Circle Initiates.
Velan? He wore torn grey cotton. No weapon. No armor. Just a brand new death sentence.
One of the initiates, a tall boy named Sevagan, laughed and cracked his knuckles. "We don't need to kill him, right? Just make sure he doesn't stand up."
Another shrugged. "Let's see if a servant's spine burns like the rest."
Kayalvizhi raised her hand. "Begin."
The three moved in unison.
---
Velan didn't move.
He let the first strike come—a sweeping leg meant to trip him. He twisted at the last moment and redirected the momentum, sending the attacker sprawling face-first into the sand.
The second disciple launched forward, fists blazing with internal flame. "Sudarchi Nadai!"
A proper clan technique. A wave of heat surged.
Velan stepped into it. Through it.
He felt the heat burn his cheek—but deeper than pain, he felt the shadow move inside him, coiling around his bones like armor. The fire didn't pass through him.
It avoided him.
The crowd gasped.
Velan ducked under a punch and drove his palm into the boy's gut—not with strength, but with weight. His shadow moved first, then his strike followed, delayed by half a breath. The hit landed like a falling boulder.
The disciple crumpled, choking.
---
Only one remained.
Sevagan looked furious now. He drew a real blade from his back—not practice steel, but sharpened bronze, glowing faintly from inner qi.
"You think tricks make you one of us, scum?" he spat. "Let me show you real Aathirai flame."
He slashed wide. The heat from the arc sizzled the sand. Velan barely dodged.
But his body was waking up.
With every strike dodged, every breath drawn, Anaiyaal's system inside him unfolded a little more—like a thousand-year-old book opening page by page.
> Shadow reading complete. Echo form available.
Velan's eyes widened. He didn't understand the voice fully—but instinct took over.
He mimicked Sevagan's own stance, but mirrored it in reverse. Then he launched the same technique—only his version twisted unnaturally, warping the trajectory in midair.
Blade met palm.
The sand exploded. Sevagan staggered back, clutching his shoulder.
Velan stood over him, not victorious—but transformed.
The mark at his collarbone now glowed visible for all to see.
It wasn't clan fire. It wasn't sanctioned cultivation.
It was other.
A wave of murmurs rose across the stands. Some in awe, some in fear.
Kayalvizhi stood slowly.
"Enough."
The gong rang again.
---
Later, as the crowd dispersed, Velan knelt in the cold dark of the barracks, hands shaking. Not from exhaustion—but from power. He could feel something inside him, just beneath the surface.
Anaiyaal's voice returned, quiet and deep:
> Your body is compatible. The seal is weakening. You have passed the first gate.
> But remember, flame-born... you are not yet awakened. You are only—chosen.
Velan looked up at the moon through the cracks in the ceiling.
For the first time, the stars didn't look so far.
---
End of Chapter 4