By the time the first walls appeared through the fog, Ezra's legs ached and his breath came shallow. The valley had long vanished behind him, replaced by barren plains of gray earth and twisted, petrified roots that jutted from the ground like bones.
The city loomed ahead—not a city of light or stone, but of shadows and smoke. Blackspire Outpost—a slum built on the corpse of a fallen sect, where rogue cultivators and mercenaries gathered to sell, trade, or kill.
No banners hung here. No temples, no laws. Just walls carved from jagged obsidian and gates that groaned under the weight of those who came to beg or die.
Ezra approached slowly, hood drawn low. The wind carried scents of oil, iron, and burned herbs. Voices echoed—a hundred tongues murmuring deals, threats, or prayers.
As he passed through the cracked gate, a figure slouched against the wall hissed, "First time, wanderer?"
Ezra didn't answer. The man's Qi was faint, his eyes dull. A failed cultivator—one step from ruin. He smelled of stale medicine and regret.
"Careful inside," the man muttered. "No one here's unarmed, and everyone's hungry."
Ezra walked on. The streets were narrow and uneven, lined with makeshift stalls selling elixirs that glowed faintly green, bone charms, and weapons made from beast fangs. Every face he passed watched him too long.
He found an alley near a shattered statue of some forgotten deity and crouched there, resting his back against the cold wall. The Mark on his chest throbbed faintly beneath his shirt—a steady pulse like a second heartbeat.
He glanced at his hands. The faint traces of red lines—tattoo-like streaks—had begun to coil from his wrist to his forearm, glowing faintly when he breathed. Each line pulsed in time with the rhythm of the energy he'd stolen.
He pressed a hand over it, grimacing. The power within was real, but it wasn't his. It resisted him, like trying to hold water in clenched fists.
When he focused, he could feel the stolen Qi moving inside him, restless, circling his core like predators trapped in a cage.
Then, as if sensing his attention, a whisper rose in his mind—soft, alien, and cold.
Power taken must be tamed. Each soul absorbed marks you, until mastery turns chains into dominion.
He shuddered. "So that's the price."
The Mark pulsed once, answering like a heartbeat.
He took a slow breath, forcing the chaos within to still. It wasn't submission—it was synchronization. Every pulse, every thread of stolen Qi, was a fragment of strength. If he could align them, if he could refine them, they would become his.
He concentrated, closing his eyes.
The world dimmed. The sounds of Blackspire faded until there was only breath, pulse, and energy. He visualized the stolen Qi—three crimson flames circling a single golden core. Slowly, he guided them inward.
Pain flared. His vision blurred. The tattoos along his arm crawled, reshaping into a more intricate pattern—serpentine, curling toward his shoulder.
When he opened his eyes, the flames had merged into his center. His limbs trembled, but the exhaustion faded faster than before. The air around him seemed sharper—colors more defined, sounds clearer.
First refinement complete.
He stood, exhaling slowly. His reflection flickered in the black metal of a nearby stall: the tattoos now glowed faintly under his skin, like molten veins.
Then came shouting from the main street.
A group of men in tattered armor surrounded a small caravan—three wagons loaded with crates that hummed with Qi. One of the guards shouted, "You'll get nothing! This shipment belongs to the Ironveil Clan!"
A blade flashed. Blood splattered the dirt. The crowd backed away but didn't intervene.
Ezra watched from the edge, eyes narrowing. The attackers bore no crest—rogue cultivators, scavengers of chaos. Their leader, a tall man with scarred cheeks and a necklace of beast teeth, turned toward the crowd and bellowed, "Any who stand for Ironveil will die with them!"
No one moved.
Ezra's fingers flexed. The Mark beneath his shirt pulsed again—hungry.
He hadn't planned to fight, not here. But as he watched the Qi shimmering around the attackers—visible now to his sharpened sight—something clicked in his mind.
Each person was like a pattern, a flame. Their strength wasn't mystery—it was information. And information could be dissected.
He stepped forward before he realized it, his shadow spilling into the light.
The scarred leader noticed him. "Another scavenger?" he sneered. "Walk away, stranger."
Ezra smiled faintly. "I don't walk away from lessons."
The man frowned. "Lessons?"
The Mark flared—and Ezra moved.
The fight was brief but brutal. Each motion was instinct sharpened by analysis: dodge, pivot, strike. The Mark drew on the Qi he'd refined, enhancing his strength for seconds at a time. He didn't overpower them—he out-thought them.
When the last attacker fell, the crowd was silent. Ezra knelt, hand trembling as he touched the fallen leader's chest.
A new pulse of energy surged into him—hot, fierce, laced with rage. The tattoos on his arm writhed, spreading to his shoulder and spine.
This time, he didn't resist. He let the energy flow, molding it to his rhythm, his will. The pain subsided faster than before.
The whispers in his mind purred.
Each foe absorbed deepens the path. Each mark a story written in your flesh.
Ezra exhaled, standing amid the stunned silence. "Then I'll write mine in blood and survival."
Above, the dark clouds shifted. For a brief moment, the bruised sky revealed a slit of gold light—like an eye watching.
Aetherion itself had taken notice.