Kael opened his eyes with a sharp breath, his back damp with sweat. The walls of the stone chamber pressed in around him—silent, cold, and unmoving—but the fire in his chest had yet to settle.
The first layer of the Nameless Incantation had finally yielded.
It hadn't come easily. When the breakthrough struck, it was like a storm tearing through his body—his limbs trembling, veins burning, bones groaning as if trying to remember how to be whole again. His vision blurred. His breath faltered. He collapsed in the center of the stone chamber, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
He would've died, if not for Elric.
The apothecary had burst in with uncharacteristic fury, muttering curses Kael didn't recognize as he forced down bitter poultices and injected burning tonics into Kael's arms. For days, he worked without pause, never letting Kael slip too far from the edge.
Now, Kael stood again—wobbly, but alive.
He uncurled his legs, joints crackling, and rubbed at his calves. Long hours of meditation had left them numb, stiff with the weight of stillness. As blood returned to his limbs, he rose and looked around.
His personal chamber—his sanctuary—was carved deep into the granite walls of Verdant Hollow. The walls were seamless, the door a slab of unyielding stone. It was the kind of space reserved for Elders or Core Disciples.
And yet, somehow, it belonged to him.
A gift from Elric.
Or something more?
Kael had stopped questioning the old man's motives. Since the breakthrough, Elric had treated him with an almost fanatical protectiveness. More than a master. More than a healer. Almost… like family.
Kael stepped out into the twilight. His robes were damp, clinging to his frame, but the mountain air was sharp and clean. The path to the common grounds curved gently downhill, marked by moss-covered stones and lanterns long since extinguished.
He passed Bren's hut on the way. As expected, it was empty.
Bren, with his boundless energy and stubborn optimism, had taken to training beneath the Scarletfall Cascade—a thunderous waterfall at the base of Verdant Hollow. There, he practiced a rare physical technique passed down by Elric: a brutal art whispered more than taught.
Stoneveil Endurance.
According to Elric, the technique had once belonged to mountain monks who believed the body must break a hundred times before it was worthy of strength. Bren had embraced the philosophy with the kind of reckless enthusiasm only he could muster.
But this technique held a darker truth. The deeper one delved, the more excruciating the journey became. While the early stages could be endured with sheer will, each higher layer brought agony few could bear. Most gave up before reaching the fourth threshold, their bodies too ravaged by pain to continue.
Yet if one could endure all nine layers—if one could survive the storm—the rewards were extraordinary.
Their skin would grow dense as forged leather, their bones like tempered iron. Blades would dull against them. Fire and ice would scarcely bite. Legends even spoke of a monk who could shatter stone walls with a single palm or carry warhorses on each shoulder.
That monk, they said, had no pain receptors.
Elric had warned Bren of all this. The pain. The toll. The sacrifice. But Bren, drawn by tales of invincibility, had laughed it off.
And strangely—it seemed to work.
In just two months, Bren had reached the cusp of the second threshold.
He claimed only the thinnest veil remained—a single breath, a single heartbeat—and he'd break through. He spoke of it with the same certainty he used to describe the direction of the wind or the taste of roasted yam.
Kael respected his tenacity.
But part of him couldn't help but wonder:Was Bren chasing strength... or running from something else?