The spiral-shaped gouge in the cavern wall still smoked in his memory when Kaelen staggered back into his quarters. He latched the door, collapsed against it, and slid to the floor.
Pain roared through his chest. His meridians felt flayed raw, every breath tugging at them like a blade drawn across an open wound. He pressed his palm to his ribs and coughed, spattering the stone floor with a spray of crimson.
The price of progress had come due.
Kaelen let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes, forcing his breathing into a measured rhythm. In the dark behind his lids, the serpent of his Soul Palace stirred.
It coiled tighter, pressing against the walls of the inner chamber. Its eyes gleamed sharper now, the faint dullness gone. In place of grey dimness, silver scales shimmered like tarnished moonlight. And beneath the shimmer, something new pulsed: a second coil, faint but undeniable, winding like a hidden thread around the serpent's body.
An echo of growth.
Kaelen exhaled slowly. Not wasted, then.
The next three days passed in near silence.
While other disciples sparred in the training yards, Kaelen shut himself in, cycling his Qi through damaged meridians with painstaking care. Every session was agony; the hybrid strike had stretched him near to breaking. But the more he guided the energy through its natural paths, the cleaner the flows became, repairing cracks, knitting the veins together strand by strand.
At night, when the sect quieted, he returned to the hidden valley by the stream. No cavern resonance tonight—he dared not risk that so soon. Instead, he traced the spiral strike with slow, deliberate motions, learning how to guide the currents with less strain.
The first few attempts sputtered, breaking apart halfway. The next curved clumsily, the spiral faltering. Each failure left his lungs aching, his vision swimming.
But Kaelen did not stop.
By the seventh night, his serpent hovered in the air behind him, faint and silver, as his palm cut a smooth spiral through the air. The strike landed with a whisper, not a roar—but it was balanced, controlled, his meridians intact.
A shadow smile touched his lips.
Closer.
On the tenth day, Kaelen tested it again within the Soul Palace.
He sat cross-legged in meditation, serpent manifesting before him. He extended his hand, channeling Qi not into the world but into the Palace itself. The serpent hissed softly and followed the spiral flow, twisting its own body into a mirrored coil.
The chamber resonated. Energy swirled around them, faint eddies rising from the floor. Kaelen's bones vibrated, his body straining under the pull—but this time, it held.
The serpent lashed forward, its spiral strike cutting through the chamber's mist. The mist shredded, curling apart in silent spirals that echoed the motion.
When the serpent drew back, its scales gleamed brighter. Its eyes locked on his, colder now, but clearer—two pinpoints of silver flame.
Kaelen opened his own eyes, breath sharp.
The strike no longer felt like two borrowed techniques mashed together. It was becoming his.
The price lingered. His body was slower in sparring matches; he feigned clumsiness when paired with fellow disciples, masking the strength in his veins. Whispers spread in the yards of his lack of progress, his failing serpent.
Kaelen let them speak.
The more they looked past him, the less they saw.
Only in solitude did he release the spiral, refining its edge. The motion grew cleaner, smoother, until he could transition between coiling thrust and flowing curve in a single breath. What had once shredded his meridians now flowed like water along a deepened channel.
He learned to hide its release too, keeping the spiral tight so the strike looked like a simple palm technique to an untrained eye.
In the serpent's chamber, the second coil wound tighter. The faint silver glow strengthened, a shadow promise of what it might become.
One evening, Kaelen tested it against stone.
He waited until the sect's torches dimmed and the courtyards emptied, then slipped once more into the valley. A boulder sat by the stream, weathered by water and time.
Kaelen steadied himself, channeled his Qi, and struck.
The spiral lashed outward, silent and swift.
Stone cracked with a sound like bone breaking. The boulder shuddered, a spiral-shaped fracture splitting it in two. The halves slumped into the stream, water splashing high before flowing around the broken pieces.
Kaelen exhaled, his breath fogging in the night air. His serpent uncoiled behind him, silver scales glinting faintly in the moonlight.
It was not grand, not earth-shaking—but it was his.
And more importantly, no one knew.
The next morning, Kaelen joined the disciples in the training yard. He kept his strikes clumsy, his serpent faint. When Joren's name was shouted from the far end of the yard—praised for some feat in the elder halls—Kaelen bowed his head, letting the noise wash past him.
But within, his serpent coiled tighter, its second loop gleaming.
Power was building.
And when the time came, it would not burn in firelight like Joren's arrogance.
It would strike from shadow.