The power of the 7th Stage settled in Irelion's bones, a clean, potent hum that was both a comfort and a curse. It was a fraction of his former strength, a single candle against the inferno of his memories, but it was real. He was stronger.
He was also exposed.
As the last echoes of his breakthrough faded, a profound silence fell over the grotto. Too silent. The normal, subtle symphony of the cave—the drip of water, the scuttling of unseen things—was gone. He was no longer alone. A presence, faint but sharp as a needle, pricked at the edge of his senses. Someone was outside. Watching.
Damn it. His sanctuary had been breached.
He got to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, trying to mask the tremor of exhaustion in his limbs. He looked down at himself. He was caked in a foul-smelling layer of expelled impurities, his robes stiff with dried sweat and grime. He was a mess. He couldn't be seen like this. More than that, he couldn't afford to be cornered in this cave.
He moved silently out of the hidden chamber, letting the heavy stone seal grind shut behind him. He navigated the main tunnel not with the arrogance of his new power, but with the cautious tread of a hunted animal. Every step was measured, every shadow a potential threat. The mouth of the cave was a hundred paces away, a pale, distant promise of moonlight.
As he drew closer, the moonlight was eclipsed. A figure stood silhouetted against the night sky, a slender, perfect shadow of lethal grace. They were waiting for him.
He didn't need to see her face. He knew that cold. It was a presence that didn't just lower the temperature of the air; it lowered the temperature of your soul.
Aurelia Frostbane.
He stopped, a stone statue in the gloom. Running was pointless. She was a predator who had tracked him to his lair. The hunt was over. All that was left was the confrontation. He walked forward, his steps heavy, and emerged from the mouth of the cave.
She stood there, her arms crossed, her silver-blue inner sect robes seeming to absorb the moonlight. She wasn't holding her sword, but she didn't need to. Her gaze was sharper than any blade. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe, taking in his filthy state, the faint, lingering scent of the Moonpetal Herb, and the new, undeniable density of the Qi rolling off him.
"The Weeping Grotto," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. A piece of a puzzle clicking into place. "A worthless cave, the sect records say. Clearly, the records are wrong."
Irelion offered no reply. He just stood there, his face a mask of weary indifference, waiting.
Her patience, already thin, began to fray. "You cultivate in secret. You hide your strength. You lie to the sect and its elders. Give me one reason why I shouldn't report you for hoarding sect resources."
"The herbs in this cave are wild," he said, his voice raspy. "They belong to no one. I broke no rule."
"You broke the rule of common sense," she shot back, taking a step forward. The air crackled with her barely contained power. "Disciples strive for recognition. For power. For a place in the Inner Sect. You have the power of a 7th Stage cultivator—my equal—and yet you chose to be ranked last. You chose to be a failure. You are either a madman or a spy."
Or a ghost, he thought, the bitterness a familiar taste on his tongue. He met her gaze, and for the first time, he didn't look away. He let her see the abyss in his eyes, the ancient, bottomless well of a sorrow she could never comprehend.
"My reasons are my own," he said.
That was the wrong thing to say. A muscle in her jaw twitched. For her, a woman of logic and order, a secret without a reason was a personal affront. "That is not an answer."
Her hand dropped to the hilt of her sword. "Words are failing. A blade speaks a simpler truth."
"We have already done this," he sighed, the sound impossibly old coming from a twenty-year-old's lips.
"No," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Last time, I was testing a curiosity. This time, I am dissecting a lie."
She didn't draw. Instead, she moved. It was a single, explosive step. Her hand, wreathed in a shimmering frost, shot out not with a sword, but with two fingers extended like a blade, aimed directly at his throat. It was a technique of the Frostbane clan, a non-lethal disabling strike meant to freeze the meridians in the neck. Fast. Unforgiving.
Irelion's soul reacted before his mind could process the attack. He saw it coming, but more than that, his memory screamed a warning. She overextends her shoulder when using the Frost Point strike. Always has.
He didn't try to block the blow. He didn't have time. Instead, he took a tiny, almost imperceptible step back and to the left. At the same time, his own hand came up, not to strike, but with an open palm. He didn't meet her fingers head-on. He gently brushed the side of her wrist.
It was a movement of sublime, insulting precision.
His touch, imbued with a flicker of his own Qi, was just enough to disrupt the perfect alignment of her attack. Her fingers, meant for his throat, hissed past his collarbone, the frost so cold it burned his skin through the fabric of his robe. Her momentum carried her forward, stumbling a single step before she caught herself, spinning around to face him.
Her face was no longer a mask of cold fury. It was a canvas of pure, unadulterated shock.
"How…" she breathed, her eyes wide. She looked from her own hand to his face, her logical mind failing to compute what had just happened. "That flaw in my technique… only my father knows about it. How did you know?"
He had done it again. In his desperate attempt to defend himself, he had revealed a piece of knowledge so impossible, so intimate, that it was more damning than any display of power.
He remained silent, his expression grim.
Aurelia stared at him, the gears in her brilliant mind turning, discarding one impossible theory after another. Finally, a new, cold light entered her eyes. She had been trying to break him open with force. A crude, foolish tactic. It was clear his secrets were not buried in his body, but in his mind. She would have to use a different kind of trap.
She took a deep, centering breath, her composure returning like a wall of ice. "Very well, Irelion Vance. You will not speak. You will not fight. You will not explain." Her lips curved into a smile that was all sharp, predatory edges. "Then you will have to show me."
She pointed a finger at him. "The mission board will be updated within the hour. There is a patrol in the Blackwood Forest tomorrow morning. It is a simple mission, but it has gone ignored. I have volunteered to lead it."
A cold dread, far worse than anything he'd felt during their fight, washed over him. He knew what was coming.
"As you are a disciple of such… mysterious potential," she continued, savoring each word, "I am officially assigning you to my team. For evaluation. You will be under my direct supervision. You will follow my every command. And I will see for myself what kind of secrets a man like you is so desperate to hide."
She turned and walked away without another word, leaving him standing at the mouth of the cave, a prisoner of his own making, condemned to walk into a death trap he now knew he had set for them both.