The gate slammed shut behind Kahel, sealing him into silence.
He stood in a round chamber of white stone, lit by glowing lines etched into the floor. As his eyes adjusted, the runes flared once, then dimmed. The wall ahead shimmered — and without warning, vanished.
What lay beyond was no mere courtyard.
It was a world in miniature.
The Proving Garden.
A pocket realm crafted centuries ago by the first sect master of Ethereal Bloom Valley — not a place for learning, but a crucible for the untrusted. A space that tested body, mind, and soul, often all at once.
Few walked out unchanged.
Fewer walked out at all.
Kahel stepped into the forest.
The air was thick with spiritual pressure. Trees stood like ancient sentinels, their bark carved with unknown symbols, their leaves shimmering between green and silver. Mist hung low over the ground. The only sounds were the drip of condensation from branch to root — and the quiet hum of qi lines beneath the earth.
He paused.
Something about this place made his skin crawl. Not fear — but recognition. The Ashen Flame inside him stirred, as if it had passed through a place like this before.
No. Not before.
Long ago.
He shook the thought from his head and kept moving.
Hours passed.
The forest was a shifting maze. Trails twisted behind him. Landmarks dissolved. He marked a tree with a stone and found the same mark a hundred steps later — though he'd walked straight.
The Garden was alive. Or at least aware.
It wanted him lost.
Worse, it wanted him exhausted.
By nightfall, Kahel had found no water, no food, and no exit. His breath came heavy. His body ached from the slope of the terrain and the endless alertness. His stomach was a hollow knot.
Still, he didn't stop.
He thought of his mother. The way she once smiled over boiled roots and bitter tea. The way her eyes softened when he asked if the stars ever heard wishes. She used to hum while she worked.
That sound was gone now.
He walked because stopping felt like giving up on her.
That was when he heard the first scream.
It was sharp. Male. Young.
Kahel turned toward it without thinking, breaking into a run through the underbrush. Branches clawed at his face and robes, but he didn't slow. The scream came again — then silence.
Then laughter.
He stopped at the edge of a glade.
A disciple lay broken against a boulder — blood trailing down the stone, his robes torn. Not just dead. Humiliated. Runes had been carved into his cheeks.
Beside him stood another boy — older than Kahel, maybe seventeen. Tall, with silver-dyed hair and a dark red sash across his waist.
He was wiping blood from a curved blade.
"Another one?" the boy said without turning. "They never learn."
Kahel's grip tightened on the scroll at his hip.
"I don't want to fight you," he said.
The boy finally looked up — his eyes were golden. Not from bloodline, but cultivation-enhanced. They glowed faintly.
"I'm sure he didn't either," the boy said, gesturing at the corpse. "But the Garden doesn't test kindness. It tests dominance."
He pointed the blade at Kahel.
"So show me if you deserve to stand here. Or kneel, and I'll make it quick."
Kahel said nothing. The flame in his chest stirred, warming his blood, crawling up his spine like cold fire.
The boy smiled wider. "Oh, you're one of those. Good. I was getting bored."
He slashed his blade through the air. Six shimmering butterflies of flame spun out from the tip — each a construct of pure qi.
They screamed as they flew.
Kahel dodged right, rolling into the ferns. The butterflies streaked after him, curving midair. One grazed his arm — burning not flesh, but energy. His qi staggered.
They weren't just projectiles. They fed on spirit energy.
He snapped his wrist toward the ground, called the Ashen Flame.
It answered.
His palm lit with cold, gray-white fire. The air around him dropped in temperature, frost crawling across leaves and stones.
The butterflies shrieked again and dove.
Kahel stood still.
Waited.
Then stepped forward and swiped.
The flame burst in a fan from his hand — not bright, but smothering. The first butterfly hit it and vanished instantly. The second faltered, shrieked, and burst. The third slammed into him before it could fully unravel, burning across his shoulder, but he bit down the pain and kept moving.
The boy narrowed his eyes.
"You're interesting."
Kahel didn't answer.
The boy's next attack came faster — a flash step that left a burn mark on the grass. His blade shot out, aiming for Kahel's ribs.
Kahel ducked, barely in time, then countered with a palm strike.
The Ashen Flame struck the blade.
Sparks flew — and the metal hissed. The weapon pulled away like it had touched acid. The boy jumped back, scowling.
"What kind of flame is that?" he snapped.
Kahel said nothing.
The boy took a deep breath — then thrust his hand into his own chest. Blood bloomed on his robes. Kahel's eyes widened.
"What are you—"
The blood shimmered — then burst into a circle of red light.
From it emerged a second sword, this one blackened and jagged, soaked in killing intent.
He twirled it once.
"Let's see if your strange little spark can handle this."
Kahel raised his hands again, flame coiling up both arms now. He didn't know if it was enough.
But he wouldn't back down.
The next exchange was fast — blade and fist, qi and flame. The boy moved like water, slipping between angles, never fighting head-on. Kahel blocked one strike with his forearm, the flame absorbing the blow, then countered with a spinning elbow that nearly connected.
They broke apart — both bleeding now.
Kahel's vision blurred.
His breath came heavy.
The boy was smiling still. "You're better than the others. But you'll still lose."
He raised both hands, forming a spiral seal.
A flaming serpent burst from the ground, coiling around him — a construct of pure, compressed qi.
Kahel stood firm.
The Ashen Flame inside him pulsed once — and this time, something changed.
A second flame joined the first. Pale blue, within the gray. Like memory layered into power.
He didn't understand it — but he let it in.
His entire body lit up, for a moment, like a figure made of starlight through ash.
Then he charged.
The serpent lunged.
Kahel didn't stop.
The flames met.
And Kahel's devoured the serpent.
Not broke. Not burned.
Consumed.
The serpent's head crumbled mid-air as Kahel punched through it. The boy screamed, recoiling. Kahel's fist struck his chest — and for a moment, their qi lines touched.
Kahel saw it.
A memory — not his.
A child kneeling before a bloodied teacher.
A voice whispering: "Kill or die."
Then it was gone.
The boy fell, coughing blood.
Kahel stood over him, trembling.
The fire faded from his skin, pulling inward, coiling into silence.
The boy looked up.
"You… what are you?" he whispered.
Kahel didn't answer.
He turned, walked away, steps slow.
But the Garden had noticed.
The air trembled.
And far above, a flower bloomed in the mist — black as soot, opening its petals in silence.
Watching.
Waiting.