Yet, despite his outward composure, Kaelen could not deny the immense pressure that emanated from Lucien Cross, a pressure so tangible and potent that it stirred the very air around them, weighing heavily upon his chest. This young master, truly, was not an ordinary talent; he lived up to the legends that proclaimed him as one of the foremost prodigies among the younger generation of the Mystic Dawn Pavilion.
"What now? Are you here to seize my late master's possessions?" Kaelen's gaze locked unflinchingly onto Lucien Cross, his eyes gleaming coldly, sharp and merciless as twin blades unsheathed for battle. He stood his ground, unmoved by the suffocating aura that pressed upon him. The fact that Lucien Cross was regarded as one of the few unparalleled young experts within the Pavilion mattered little to him — not even such a figure could dictate his fate with mere presence.
Lucien Cross smiled faintly, and though his handsome countenance seemed radiant with a deceptive brilliance, a devastating force erupted from his body the next instant, surging outward like a tidal wave crashing against rocky cliffs. The sheer magnitude of it caused the trees and grasses lining the narrow stony path to tremble and sway as if seized by an invisible tempest.
"Your master is dead. His belongings must naturally return to the Pavilion. Surrender them, and I shall allow you to leave intact," Lucien Cross said, his tone calm, even leisurely, yet carrying an unassailable might that pressed heavily upon the surroundings, brooking no defiance.
Though he claimed to act in accordance with Pavilion rules, his posture and presence were themselves an act of domination, a silent decree of submission. It was clear that his true motive was not merely to reclaim what once belonged to the departed master, but to stamp his authority upon Kaelen from the outset, to extinguish any spark of resistance within him.
"Hmph! If you desire what my master entrusted to me, then come and take it yourself!" Kaelen's voice rang out with cutting clarity. His eyes flashed with a steely brilliance, and beneath his simple robes, the muscles of his body grew taut like a coiled predator poised to strike. He resembled a panther in the wild, silent yet deadly, ready to unleash devastation upon the slightest provocation.
Lucien Cross regarded Kaelen in silence for a long moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully, his eyes flickering with an inscrutable light, a smile both mocking and approving playing about his lips, as though he saw before him an amusing, defiant enigma. At length, he spoke: "Good. Very good. You have spirit, indeed." And with those parting words, he turned on his heel and strode away without further contest.
Kaelen, watching Lucien Cross's retreating figure, felt a profound sense of unease. Why had he, so easily and so casually, withdrawn? Kaelen knew well enough that Lucien Cross was not merely any disciple but one of distinguished lineage within a prestigious cultivation family, and moreover, shared some unknown but clearly existent connection with the inner hierarchy of the Mystic Dawn Pavilion. It would have been within reason for Lucien Cross to press the matter here and now. Why, then, did he choose to depart without action?
Yet, of one thing Kaelen was certain — by refusing to surrender his master's possessions, he had, beyond any doubt, made an enemy of Lucien Cross.
"A year from now, at the time of the Decennial Grand Trial, see to it that you do not disappoint me."
The words, carried by a secret art of voice transmission, struck Kaelen's ears as if whispered directly beside him, though Lucien Cross was already some distance ahead. Kaelen stiffened, a cold glint flashing across his eyes as the implications of those words seared into his mind.
"Sound transmission technique..." Kaelen murmured inwardly, his heart heavy. Lucien Cross's true purpose had been laid bare — he intended to confront him not now, but at the Grand Trial before the eyes of all the Pavilion, to defeat him utterly and publicly, to break his spirit beneath the watchful gaze of every brother and sister of the Pavilion.
The Decennial Grand Trial of the Mystic Dawn Pavilion was not merely a test of skill but a grand spectacle during which the mountain gates were thrown open, and new disciples were selected. Those who ranked among the top ten received rare and precious rewards from the Pavilion — rewards that could elevate a disciple's cultivation to new heights. Among the most coveted was the Condensed Essence Pill, an alchemical treasure capable of aiding a disciple to condense their Aether Core, the foundation of all higher cultivation.
Yet for Kaelen, who did not tread the orthodox Aetherial path of the Nine Revolutions Golden Core, such a pill was of little use. His road was different, more ancient, more primal, anchored in the profound martial way. Still, he understood clearly: Lucien Cross's aim was not the reward, but the humiliation — the spectacle of his defeat.
"Dream on, Lucien Cross..." Kaelen's gaze hardened as he looked into the distance where his opponent had vanished. His resolve blazed in his chest like a brand. Though grief for his fallen master still gnawed at his heart, he forced it down, burying the sorrow beneath layers of unyielding will. He would transmute that grief into strength, into the fires of determination that would forge his soul anew.
For Kaelen possessed a secret advantage unknown to any other: the Ouroboros Pendant, a relic so ancient and mysterious that its origins had been lost even to the chronicles of the oldest sects. It granted him a cultivation speed tenfold that of ordinary men — what another required ten years to accomplish, he would complete in one.
Thus, within a year, advancing from the Sixth Awakening Stage to the Seventh was not merely possible — it was inevitable, as certain as the sun rising in the east. And among equals, a martial artist at the Seventh Awakening Stage possessed a natural and overwhelming advantage against an Aether cultivator of the same realm.
Martial artists forged their bodies into living weapons, honed through blood and battle; their techniques, their so-called battle arts, were not the sterile constructs of theory but the fierce, raw expressions of survival, refined through countless life-and-death struggles. Against such techniques, the ethereal spells of Aether cultivators often faltered, crushed by sheer, brutal efficiency.
Moreover, the killing intent imbued within martial techniques far surpassed the cautious restraint of Aetherial arts. In battle, it was not the elegance of cultivation that decided victory but the decisive, merciless strike.
And Lucien Cross, for all his accolades, remained at the Seventh Awakening Stage, no more and no less.
A cold, almost imperceptible smile played upon Kaelen's lips as he pondered these truths. His steps grew firm and resolute as he walked forward, vanishing slowly into the shadowed distance of the narrow, stony path, his figure swallowed by the twilight.
His master was gone. His enemies gathered like storm clouds upon the horizon. But he — he would rise, forging the ancient martial arts handed down to him to their pinnacle, until all who had scorned him, all who had doubted, would kneel in shame before the might they had dismissed as obsolete.
Soon, very soon, the world would know the name Kaelen.
Author's Note
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— KaelenDusk