The water struck like stone.
Each drop from the roaring falls above landed on Kael's shoulders like a hammer, threatening to snap his spine in half. But he remained in stance—low, legs wide, fists clenched by his sides.
The Iron Bone Routine had become his religion.Each drop of blood was an offering.Each scream swallowed was a vow renewed.
But this morning was different.
There was a… sound.
Not the roar of water. Not the shriek of wind.
Something beneath it all.
A whisper.
Faint. Just beyond hearing.
Kael's eyes flicked open. He stood beneath the waterfall as he always did—on the flat, slick stones at its base—but now, his focus drifted to the left, to a narrow bend where the water curved unnaturally.
Curious, he took a step.
Then another.
The current fought him. Tried to push him back. But he forced his body forward, pressing through the icy veil.
Beyond the cascade—
A hollow space.
A crevice in the cliff face, carved by centuries of silent erosion. Barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through.
Kael stepped in.
The world fell quiet.
Inside, the air was cold and still, heavy with the scent of moss and stone. A soft green glow pulsed from deep within the cave, like the breath of a sleeping beast.
Kael moved forward slowly, hand against the wall, following the light.
And then—he found it.
An altar.
Old. Cracked. Choked in vines.
And behind it, carved into the stone wall in faded, jagged etchings:
"Pain remembers. Pain guides. The blade of the wild knows no form but fury."
The whisper returned.
But this time, it wasn't just in his head.
Kael turned.
A figure stood in the dark.
Not flesh.
Not shadow.
Something in between.
Its voice was the scrape of stone, the crackle of burning leaves.
"You bleed well, boy. Would you bleed more… to learn the truth of the old ways?"
Kael didn't flinch. "I don't want power. I want strength."
The figure chuckled. A sound like bone breaking.
"Then you may yet survive the Feral Path. The way of instinct. Of pain. Of the forgotten art that even your ancestors feared."
From the wall, a blade emerged—not of steel, but of blackened root and fossilized bone. Old. Primitive. Alive.
"Take it," the voice said. "But know this—once you grasp it, you are no longer man. You are no longer boy. You are war made flesh."
Kael stared at it.
The cave thrummed.
His hand closed around the hilt.
And somewhere, in the bones of the mountain—
Something ancient stirred.