Morning mist clung to the trees like old breath.
In the eastern training grove, the air was unusually still. Birds had not sung that day. Even the insects had retreated from the bamboo, as if something poisonous lingered beneath the leaves.
Kael stepped into the clearing barefoot, as always.
His muscles ached, but it was a welcome ache—the kind that whispered he was becoming something more.
He didn't notice the watchers.
Not yet.
Training Session or Trap?
A senior disciple approached.
Shen Tao. Calm. Polished. The kind of fighter who never raised his voice—because he never needed to.
He smiled like a mentor and offered, "The elders asked for volunteers to test your progress. No forms. Just instinct."
Kael didn't blink.
"Accepted."
Six other disciples stepped out from the bamboo grove's edge.
Too many for a friendly spar.
Too calm for a challenge.
But Kael said nothing.
He stepped into the dirt circle.
First Blows
It began as a mock duel.
The first disciple came fast—too fast. Not sparring-speed. Killing-speed.
Kael ducked under the strike, caught the attacker's wrist, and snapped it sideways. A scream followed.
The second came without warning—no time for rules. No honor.
By the third strike, Kael realized:
This wasn't a test. This was an execution.
And it was approved.
The Grove Burns
Pain awakened something in him.
Kael's eyes sharpened.
His movements blurred.
Not elegant. Not refined.
But efficient. Brutal. Animal.
He used what nature had taught him. A jab to the throat. A knee to the gut. A boot to the shin, followed by a bite to the collarbone.
Blood spilled across the bamboo roots like wine over temple stones.
He didn't stop until all six attackers were on the ground—moaning, unconscious, or too broken to move.
The Last One Stands
Shen Tao hadn't moved.
Still smiling.
"You fought well," he said softly. "But you shouldn't have risen. The sect doesn't need monsters."
Kael's lip split in a smile of his own. Not humor—just teeth.
"Then they shouldn't have made one."
Tao struck fast—a knife, not a blade. Hidden.
But Kael had learned from pain.
He let it cut shallow—across the ribs—and then closed the distance.
Two fists. One elbow. One shattered jaw.
Shen Tao fell.
The Aftermath
When Kael walked from the grove, blood trailing from his footstep, disciples scattered before him like crows startled from a carcass.
An elder watched from a distant balcony.
He did not call for punishment.
He did not call for justice.
He whispered only one word:
"Interesting…"
**
Kael now walks with blood on his hands—and a growing reputation he never asked for.
But in the shadows of the sect, unseen eyes begin to turn.
Not all of them human.