The stone courtyard had never been this silent.
Even the wind dared not whisper as Kael stepped into the circle carved with old sigils—symbols long eroded by time, now stained with the blood of generations. He stood alone, eyes low, body still bandaged from the last trial that wasn't supposed to happen.
But that was before the scroll.Before the whispers.Before the hunger returned.
The Challenge of Petals
Today was not just another spar.It was The Trial of Blooming Blades, the sect's passage for outer disciples to rise to the inner ranks. Most failed. A few bled their way in. The lucky ones left with scars.
Kael? He wasn't lucky. He was angry.
Across from him stood Jin Ru, a favored disciple—polished, smug, and dressed in ceremonial red. He twirled his dual swords, flashing them toward the crowd like a peacock.
"Try not to die quickly," Jin Ru sneered. "I want to enjoy this."
Kael didn't respond. His hands hung loose, shoulders relaxed. But his feet… rooted. His breath… quiet.
Jin Ru struck first.
Instinct Over Form
The crowd saw two movements.
Jin's blade arced toward Kael's side.
Kael twisted—not away, but into the strike, letting it graze along his ribs just enough to throw his opponent off balance. Pain flared, but Kael embraced it.
His hand snapped up like a striking hawk—knuckles slammed into Jin's throat, silencing him mid-taunt.
Gasps rang out.
Jin stumbled back, coughing blood.
And that's when it changed.
Kael didn't use a known stance.No named forms.Just wild, precise, feral motion—drawing from the scroll's whispers and his body's memory of suffering.
The Sutra Awakens
With each blow, Kael's body moved as if guided by something older than training.
A stomp that shattered Jin's balance.
An elbow that cracked bone.
A sweeping kick born not from technique but from howling instinct.
Even the elder observing the match leaned forward, brows furrowed. "That's… not any style I know."
Another murmured, "It's not a style. It's survival made flesh."
Jin screamed, lunging in desperation. Kael met him with a shoulder charge and—
CRACK!
The swordsman hit the courtyard stones like a dropped puppet, blood mixing with the old stains beneath him.
Kael didn't look back.
He just stood there, breathing.
Reactions
The sect was stunned. Not just by the victory, but how it was won.
Whispers buzzed:
"He didn't even draw a weapon…""Is that… a forbidden style?""No, it's something else. Like the mountain taught him itself."
From the high balcony, Elder Shen, master of internal arts, watched Kael closely. His eyes narrowed.
"Watch that one," he told a servant. "He walks a path not lit by lanterns. And those paths… usually lead to graves or greatness."
Later That Night
Kael sat alone beneath a dying tree in the courtyard. Blood caked his wraps. The scroll lay in his lap, the carvings almost warm under his fingers.
The wind whispered again.
Not in words, but in urges:
Dig deeper.
Remember the wounds.
Burn, and become.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time… he didn't feel weak.