The Senior Prefect's words, forced from his lips like stones, echoed in the stunned silence. "The petitioner... has passed the trial."
The silence did not break into applause. It shattered into a thousand frantic, incredulous whispers. The disciples, moments ago so sure of their world, now stared at Kael as if he were a fissure that had just split the ground at their feet. They didn't understand what they had seen, and the not-knowing was more terrifying than any display of power. Who was he? What was he?
The masters and prefects converged into a tight, furious knot, their voices low and urgent. They were the architects of this rigid society, and a cleaner had just taken a sledgehammer to their foundation. They looked at Kael with a mixture of hatred and fear.
Lyren was the only one who seemed to be thinking rather than just reacting. His eyes, sharp and analytical, never left Kael. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a burning, obsessive curiosity. Kael was no longer a bug to be crushed; he was an impossible variable in an equation that had, until now, always been perfect.
Bound by the very law he had tried to use as a weapon, the Senior Prefect strode toward Kael. His face was a mask of thunderous humiliation. In his hand, he held a small, crystalline token—a disciple's sigil, the key to entering the tournament. He didn't offer it; he thrust it at Kael as if it were a brand.
"You have used some dark trickery to gain entry to this sacred contest," the Prefect snarled, his voice a low threat meant only for Kael. "Enjoy this small victory. In the arena, against true disciples, your heresy will be exposed. And I assure you, the price for it is one you cannot begin to imagine."
Kael took the token, his expression unreadable. "I am merely following the rules," he said, his calm voice a stark contrast to the Prefect's venom.
His status changed instantly. He was no longer Kael the cleaner. He was Kael the Competitor. He was escorted from the arena, not back to the squalid mortal district, but to the sparse, sterile quarters assigned to novice disciples. The move was a physical elevation, but it stripped him of his greatest asset: his invisibility. The ghost was now trapped in the light. Every eye in the Theocracy was now on him, waiting for him to fail, waiting to dissect his secrets. His new isolation was not born of being ignored, but of being utterly and completely alien.
Finally alone in the small, white-stone room, Kael let out a slow breath. The iron mask of control relaxed for a moment. The first thing he did was assess the cost.
He sat on the simple cot and looked inward. The bruises from the automaton were already fading from purple to a dull yellow, his Adamantine Body efficiently repairing the physical damage. But the true injury was deeper. He focused his Qi-sight on the parasite wrapped around his heart. His aura of golden vitality, usually a steady, if modest, light, was visibly dimmer. It flickered slightly, like a lamp running low on oil. The single, forced pulse of energy he had used on the Resonance Stone had taken a measurable toll. The constant, quiet drain of the parasite now felt heavier, more menacing.
He understood with chilling clarity: his "miracle" was not a repeatable trick. It was a trump card that cost him his own lifespan. He could not fight his way through the tournament by flaring his life force at every opponent. He had to be smarter.
His mind began to race, planning his strategy. His opponents would have an arsenal of spells—bolts of light, shards of ice, blades of wind. He had nothing but his body and his mind. His victory would have to be built on a foundation of his three true advantages.
First, Experience. His opponents were gifted teenagers. He was a warrior with centuries of combat knowledge packed into his soul.
Second, Durability. His body could withstand punishment that would shatter his rivals, allowing him to trade blows that would be suicidal for anyone else.
Third, and most important, his Qi-Sight. He could see their spells forming. He could see the gathering of energy, the flow of intent. He could dodge an attack before it was even fully launched. He wouldn't be fighting cultivators; he would be fighting their predictable, visible mechanics.
He was deep in this strategic trance when a sharp knock came at his door.
Kael's eyes opened, his composure instantly restored. He walked to the door and opened it.
Lyren stood in the hallway.
He wasn't flanked by his usual sycophants. He was alone, his brilliant aura a stark contrast to the dim corridor. The look on his face was not one of aggression, but of intense, almost frantic, intellectual need. He dispensed with all pleasantries.
"The resonance was gold," he stated, his voice quiet but firm. "Not the pure white of Light Qi. Not the blue of Ice. Gold. That is the colour of raw life force, of vitality. It is not a refined energy. What you did... pushing unrefined vitality into a resonance crystal... it should have shattered it. At best, it should have done nothing. But it glowed."
He took a step closer, his eyes boring into Kael's. "So I will ask you directly. What are you?"
Kael looked at the genius of the Theocracy, the boy who had everything he didn't. He saw the burning curiosity, the desperate need to make the world make sense again. And he offered him nothing.
"I am a competitor," Kael said, his voice flat and even. "The masters have deemed me worthy. Isn't that enough?"
He held Lyren's gaze for a moment longer, then slowly and deliberately closed the door, leaving the prodigy standing alone in the hallway with his impossible questions.
The physical battle had been won. The psychological war had just begun.