Five years passed.
The Rootless Sect was no longer a desperate experiment; it was a hardened reality. In a network of hidden sea caves accessible only at low tide, fifty men and women now trained with a devotion that bordered on fanaticism. They were no longer the broken refuse of Freeport. Borin, the old legionary, was now a master tactician, his cynicism burned away and replaced by a core of pure steel. Elara, the former pickpocket, had become Kael's spymaster, her sharp intellect now commanding a network of informants. Finch, the scholar, presided over a growing library of forbidden lore, his purpose renewed.
They were all scarred, all hardened by the brutal scripture of the Adamantine Body Forging. None possessed Kael's transcendent power, but they were all far stronger, faster, and more resilient than any mortal had a right to be. They were fiercely loyal to Kael, the boy-prophet who had shown them a path out of the dust.
Kael himself remained a remote figure. He had delegated the day-to-day training to Borin, his focus now aimed at a much larger war. He had created his tool; now it was time to wield it. He used the sect's burgeoning intelligence network to scour the continent for whispers of his true enemy—mentions of celestial prisons, recurring phenomena, or beings who defied the normal laws of time.
It was Finch who brought him the first real lead. The scholar, trembling with excitement, presented a tattered fragment of a map, copied from a pre-cataclysm scroll acquired from a dying smuggler. It pointed to a location deep within the Verdant Maze, a place cartographers had marked as "The Tangle," but which the ancient map named the "Silent Oracle." Etched below the name was a single, chilling phrase in an archaic dialect: Where the sky-jailer's tears water the earth.
The words hit Kael with the force of a physical blow. Sky-jailer. It was the first time in 142 lifetimes that he had found external evidence that his prison was real.
Leaving the sect in the capable hands of his lieutenants, Kael journeyed east. He traveled with an unnatural speed, his perfected body moving like a phantom through the land. He entered the Verdant Maze, the great jungle a familiar place of vibrant, overwhelming life.
As he neared the coordinates on the ancient map, he stumbled upon a place that was utterly wrong. It was a perfectly circular glade, untouched by the jungle's chaotic sprawl. The air was unnaturally still and peaceful. In the center of the glade was a small, immaculately tended garden filled with plants he had never seen before—flowers that pulsed with a soft, internal light and fruits that swirled with the colours of a nebula.
Tending this impossible garden was an old man. He was stooped, with dirt under his fingernails and a simple, vacant smile on his face. He wore the roughspun clothes of a peasant. Kael's Qi-sight revealed nothing; no aura, no power, no deception. He appeared to be a perfectly normal, harmless old man. Which, in this place, made him the most suspicious thing Kael had ever seen.
This was the figure from his memories, the anchor, the one who always appeared with cryptic advice. The Old Gardener.
"A long road makes a thirsty traveler," the Gardener said, his voice mild as he straightened up, holding out one of the strange, swirling fruits. "Every path needs a moment's rest."
Kael did not take the fruit. "I'm looking for a place," he said, his voice wary. "The Silent Oracle."
The Old Gardener's smile didn't waver. He turned his attention to a small, luminous flower struggling in its pot. "This little one," he murmured, gently stroking a petal. "It thinks it's a flower. It grows towards the sun, desperate to bloom. But its roots are in a pot. It can only grow as tall as the pot allows. It can have the strongest stem, the brightest colours… but it will never be a forest. Not unless it understands the pot."
He then looked up, and his simple, vacant eyes focused on Kael. For an instant, the emptiness was replaced by an ancient, fathomless intelligence that saw everything.
"You're looking for an oracle that speaks," the Gardener said, his voice now clear and resonant. "But some truths aren't spoken; they're seen. The Oracle doesn't talk. It shows. It will show you the walls of your pot. But be warned, child of endless paths." His gaze was now piercing. "Some pots are bigger than you can imagine. And seeing the walls doesn't mean you can break them."
As quickly as it came, the lucidity vanished. The Gardener's eyes went back to their simple vacancy. He began humming a tuneless, happy song as he went back to weeding around his strange little flower.
Kael stood frozen for a long moment, a chill creeping down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. The encounter was a confirmation more absolute than any map. The Gardener was an agent of his jailer. He was a keeper of the prison, or perhaps something else entirely. Was his advice a warning? A taunt? A clue?
It didn't matter. The path was clear. Leaving the strange, peaceful glade behind, Kael continued deeper into the jungle. He was no longer just following a clue. He was walking into a deliberate confrontation, pulling on a thread that he now knew, with absolute certainty, led directly to the architect of his eternal damnation. The conspiracy was real, and it had just looked him in the eye and smiled.