The blade was gone when Kael awoke.
No—hidden.
It now rested inside him. Not physically, but… somewhere deeper. He could feel it curled behind his ribs, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
His dreams the night before had been violent. Not nightmares, no—but ancient memories. Things he'd never seen, yet remembered with terrifying clarity:
Teeth cracking beneath fists. Flesh flayed by wind and fang. Men howling not from pain, but exaltation.
And through it all, that same voice whispering:
"You are the knife of nature. Carve your name into the world."
Kael staggered back to the training yard the next morning, eyes bloodshot, skin burning under the early sun.
Dozens of outer disciples were already gathered. Most avoided his gaze now. Since his win over Jarek, whispers followed him. Some called it luck. Others called it madness.
Only a few noticed the tremor in his hands.
Or the way his breathing came in growls.
"Kael."
He turned.
Sova—one of the few who'd spoken to him kindly. Her voice wavered.
"You're… shaking. Are you alright?"
Kael opened his mouth to speak.
And bit his tongue.
Not by accident.
On purpose.
He needed pain to stay in control. That was the price of the Feral Path.
He just nodded.
"I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
The sparring circle.
The instructor barked names. Kael was paired against a boy he didn't know—taller, stronger, and grinning like this would be easy.
The match began.
Kael stood still.
The boy lunged.
And Kael… moved.
Not with thought. With instinct.
His body twisted under the blow, wrapped around the boy's arm, and slammed him to the ground with such force that bone cracked audibly.
Gasps echoed.
The boy screamed, clutching a shattered shoulder.
Kael stared at his own hands, panting. They were slick with sweat—and something darker. Not blood.
Sap.
From the blade. From within him.
By evening, the story had spread like wildfire.
"Kael broke a disciple's arm."
"Kael used forbidden techniques."
"Kael's eyes turned black."
Most was exaggeration.
Most.
Later that night, as the moons hung low and the wind whispered through the bamboo grove, a figure approached the outer disciples' quarters.
He wore dark silver robes. Inner Sect.
Elder class.
Eyes like polished obsidian peered through the open window where Kael sat cross-legged, sweat-soaked and barely breathing.
The elder didn't speak immediately.
When he did, his voice was sharp and smooth, like silk over steel.
"Tell me, boy… where did you learn to move like that?"
Kael raised his head. His voice rasped.
"Nowhere. It just… happened."
The elder watched him a moment longer, then gave a faint smile.
"Good. Let it happen again."
He turned to go.
"But next time, make sure they deserve it."
And then he vanished into the night.
Kael sat in the dark long after.
The fire inside him refused to fade.And now… others were watching.
He had taken the first step onto the Feral Path.
There was no turning back.