For three weeks, the routine was clear: scavenge, work at the Rookery, and train under the pale moonlight. Kaela's life turned into a tough calculation of energy use. She learned to handle Rust-Eater not with muscle, but by deeply engaging her Ember Aura, making the metal feel light and hollow. This technique used little spiritual energy but required total mental focus. Her footwork, developed from dodging Hagar's relentless driftwood staff, transformed into a fluid dance on the muddy streets, turning clumsy escapes into smooth, nearly invisible pivots. Despite his drunken despair, Hagar was a strict teacher. He rarely praised her, preferring to point out her errors as "places where the enemy's sword will enter." Yet, his lessons had a strong effect. Kaela no longer stumbled over debris around the Rookery. Her mind, constantly evaluating movement and counter-movement, felt sharper than any polished blade. She was moving from basic skill toward something tougher, something predatory. One frigid evening, as Kaela came back from a long scavenging trip, the familiar noise of the Dregs seemed subdued. The smells of stale beer and frying grease lingered, but the voices were low, tinged with a fear thicker than the fog rolling in from the coast. As she turned down the alley to the Rookery, the dread gathered into a silent, eerie scene. Three figures were pressed against the bakery wall, unmoving. Two were older men, known troublemakers, now slumped with vacant, wide eyes. The third was a young woman, a rival scavenger named Lyra, kneeling. Her head was down, and thin, silver-white threads—like frozen cobwebs—were wrapping around her hands and feet, pinning her to the dirty wall. A man Kaela had never seen before stood over them. He was tall and dressed in sleek black leather armor, the type usually reserved for mercenary Champions. His face was hidden by the deep shadow of his cowl, but what stopped Kaela cold was how the air around him felt. It lacked the usual heat of Aura; it felt as cold as a grave. His spiritual energy was dense, icy, and unnervingly silent—an absence of heat and light, the opposite of a Grandmaster's Radiance. The man raised his hand, and the silver-white threads tightened around Lyra's wrists, drawing tiny rivulets of blood onto the cobblestones. Lyra didn't scream; she simply whimpered. "The Shadow Hand collects its tithe," the dark figure said in a low, smooth voice, like stones grinding under ice. "The Guilds take money. We take life force. It's the cost of living in our territory." He reached out toward Lyra's chest. Kaela didn't think; she acted. The sight of Lyra's frozen terror and the mercenary's calm claim of power stirred something deep within her. Kaela drew Rust-Eater in a way Hagar would have approved—a quick, smooth movement that brought the blade into her guard position, using barely a hint of her Ember Aura. The rusted metal made no noise, but the sudden change in the air was noticeable. The dark figure turned his head toward her. "A child with scrap iron," the man said, his voice dripping with boredom. He didn't fully turn his body, only angled his head. Kaela stayed silent. She shifted her weight to her front foot, directing her Ember Aura not into the blade, but into her legs. She burst forward, utilizing Hagar's footwork, covering the distance in two steps. She aimed not for the man's center, but for the one weakness she had practiced for weeks: his wrist. The core principle of the Formless Style—seize the opening—came to life perfectly. His attention was on Lyra, and his body was only half-committed to the direction. Rust-Eater, now humming gently with Kaela's Aura, shot toward the gap between his forearm and gauntlet. This was a precise strike meant to disarm, not kill. The man reacted with astonishing speed. Before Rust-Eater could make contact, a shield of pure, clear ice appeared on his wrist, fragile yet remarkably hard. Rust-Eater crashed into the ice with a grating shriek. Kaela's Ember Aura, even when focused, failed to pierce his powerful spiritual defense. The impact sent a deep vibration up her arm, disrupting her concentration. "A surprisingly clean strike, street rat," the Shadow Hand acknowledged, his tone losing some of its indifference. He didn't counter with a sword. Instead, he simply extended his index finger. The air around Kaela's chest tightened, and she was slammed back against the wall, the breath knocked from her lungs. She collapsed to the ground, the world blurring. Her focused Ember Aura was utterly ineffective against his overwhelming spiritual presence, which felt strong enough to be at the Inferno rank, or perhaps even higher. The Shadow Hand lowered his finger, disregarding her pitiful collapse. He turned back to Lyra, the silver threads preparing to tighten again. Kaela lay on the cold stone, every muscle crying out. Yet Hagar's harsh lessons were etched into her bones: a liability gets you killed. Convert every defense into offense. With her remaining focus, she directed her Ember Aura into her ears, tuning her spiritual awareness to the sound of the mercenary's breath and the quiet scrape of his leather boots. She didn't get up. She simply took the short piece of driftwood that Hagar had tossed to her three weeks earlier, still tucked in her belt, and threw it low. It wasn't meant to hit him, just to splash the stagnant water near his foot. Splash. The Shadow Hand didn't look down, but the unexpected sound made him hesitate for the slightest moment. That was her chance. Kaela rolled, pushing off the ground with a forceful pivot, leaving Rust-Eater lying a few feet away. She didn't need a sword. She used the only weapon left: her feet. She dashed past the immobilized figures and grabbed Lyra's torso, pulling her with a desperate, reckless yank that tore the threads from her flesh and sent both tumbling into the dark mouth of a nearby sewer tunnel. They landed hard in the fetid water. Above them, a chilling Aura erupted. The ground shook as the Shadow Hand unleashed a massive wave of colorless energy. Kaela dragged Lyra deeper into the darkness, ignoring the sharp pain in her ribs. She couldn't fight this man—not yet. But she had seen the chill in his eyes, felt the death in his Aura, and understood the true nature of the battle ahead. Survival wasn't about defeating Champions; it was about escaping shadows. She heard the crushing sound of stone collapsing above them. The Shadow Hand was coming. And he still had her sword.
