The night was heavy with silver gloom. The fractured moon cast its shards of light across the training grounds of the Silver Chain Sect, where cold mist curled around the black tiles and faint whispers of Yin qi coiled like serpents. Outer disciples were gathered in droves, forming a restless ring around the dueling stage. Their voices murmured, rising and falling like waves before a storm.
"He really challenged Veyra Nightthorn…""That's suicide. The boy just entered the Moon Vein Realm yesterday!""Still… they say he opened thirty-six veins in a single night.""Lies. Even if true, without control, it means nothing against someone like Veyra."
The crowd buzzed, each disciple eager for blood, but also wary—wary of what this duel meant. Rivalries were common among outer disciples, but this one had the attention of elders lurking at the edge of the shadows.
Draven Noctis stood at the far side of the stage, silent, hands clasped behind his back. He wore the plain gray robe of an outer disciple, though his pale face, sharp cheekbones, and eyes like dim embers lent him an otherworldly aura. He looked fragile, even sickly, like a scholar misplaced on a battlefield. Yet beneath that quiet appearance, his thoughts churned.
The Observatory whispered this moment into being. Veyra Nightthorn will not kill me tonight, though he intends to. I will bend this stage into my stepstone.
Across from him strode Veyra Nightthorn. Tall, broad-shouldered, with hair as black as ink and a sneer carved into his lips, Veyra exuded arrogance. His steps rang against the tiles, deliberate, echoing. His robes were tailored tighter than regulation, showing off the faint ripple of muscles honed through harsh training. The chain insignia of the sect gleamed silver on his chest.
He raised his voice, ensuring the crowd heard every word:
"Draven Noctis, gutter rat with delusions of grandeur. You dare stand against me, against the bloodline of Nightthorn? Do you not value your life?"
A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd. Several disciples jeered:
"Crush him, Veyra!""Show the Sect what happens to pretenders!""Chain his corpse to the gate!"
Draven tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "I value my life greatly," he said softly, voice carrying not by force but by clarity. "That is why I will not waste it bowing to you."
The crowd went silent for half a heartbeat, then roared again—half in shock, half in amusement. Veyra's smile twisted into a snarl.
"Arrogant dog! When I rip your veins apart, remember you begged for this."
The dueling platform was an old relic, a square of stone etched with sigils that shimmered faintly under moonlight. Its surface drank Yin qi greedily, feeding duels with a touch of savagery. Faint marks—bloodstains etched deep into the stone—spoke of countless battles past.
A pale-robed elder, face hidden by shadow, raised his hand. His voice cut like a knife:
"Outer disciple Draven Noctis, outer disciple Veyra Nightthorn. By sect custom, a duel of chains ends only by surrender, incapacitation, or death. Do you accept?"
"I accept," Veyra barked, already pulling the air of victory around him.
"I accept," Draven said simply, his gaze never leaving Veyra's eyes.
"Begin."
Veyra exploded forward the moment the word fell. His movement was a blur, a phantom shadow streaking across the stage. His fists glowed faintly with moonlight qi, and each strike carried the weight of twenty opened veins. He aimed for Draven's throat—swift, decisive, meant to cripple immediately.
Gasps rippled through the disciples.
Draven did not move. At the last instant, his foot shifted half an inch. The punch whistled past his neck, missing flesh by a breath. His robe fluttered as if caressed by the wind.
Veyra's eyes widened for a split second. He spun, launching a sweeping kick.
Draven bent backward at an impossible angle, the strike missing by less than a finger's width. His body straightened fluidly, calm as water.
"Impossible. He just entered Moon Vein yesterday!""Did you see that? He reads every attack—""No. Luck. It has to be luck."
Draven's expression did not change. Inside, however, he was measuring, calculating, tasting every ripple of Veyra's qi.
Aggression, but reckless. His chains are strong, but untempered. The Observatory whispered his weakness—the fifth strike will overextend him.
Veyra roared, his pride stung. He unleashed a barrage, fists and kicks weaving like shadows, qi condensing into visible afterimages. The crowd barely followed the movement; dust and mist scattered in violent arcs.
Yet Draven wove through it all with eerie calm. A sidestep here, a lean there, sometimes letting a sleeve tear rather than a bone. His breathing remained steady, as though walking a garden path.
To the disciples, it looked less like defense and more like foresight—each dodge perfectly timed, impossibly so.
"Enough games!" Veyra bellowed. He drew deeply from his Moon Vein, veins along his arms glowing faint silver. His qi condensed into a chain-shaped manifestation, spectral links coiling around his fists. With a roar, he swung downward like an executioner's blade.
The impact cracked the stone stage. Dust billowed.
For a moment, all thought Draven crushed. Then the dust cleared.
Draven stood a pace away, untouched.
The crowd erupted.
Veyra panted, sweat beading. His strikes had been furious, yet Draven bore not a single wound. Rage twisted his face.
"You mock me," he hissed.
Draven finally moved offensively. He stepped forward, a single slow step. His qi flared—not loud, not bright, but deep. Thirty-six Yin veins pulsed faintly, their rhythm precise, like the ticking of an unseen clock.
The watching elder stirred, eyes narrowing.
"That rhythm… impossible. Thirty-six already?"
Gasps tore through the crowd.
Draven raised his hand. It trembled, weak, almost fragile. Yet when it extended, it brushed aside Veyra's incoming punch like smoke. His fingers pressed against Veyra's chest, no more force than a whisper.
But Veyra staggered back three steps, chest burning with invisible force. His eyes went wide.
"He—he deflected without power!""That wasn't strength… that was precision.""Like he saw the flow of qi itself."
Draven's voice, quiet, reached everyone.
"Chains can bind. Chains can shatter. Which will yours do, Veyra?"
Veyra howled, humiliated. He gathered every drop of qi, his spectral chains coiling tighter, sparks flying. He lunged, aiming to crush Draven outright.
Draven closed his eyes. For a moment, the world stilled.
Then he moved.
His steps flowed like shadow, his hand rose, and his finger tapped lightly against the incoming chain.
Crack.
The qi construct shattered.
The recoil sent Veyra sprawling across the stage, coughing blood. He landed hard, gasping, veins trembling under backlash.
Silence.
Every disciple froze. The arrogance of Veyra Nightthorn lay broken in a single exchange.
Draven lowered his hand. His breathing was calm, though inside, his veins screamed, his body ached, his qi strained. Thirty-six veins pulsed, but each was fragile as glass. He had walked the knife's edge, and only the Observatory's whispers had guided his steps.
But no one could see that. To them, he was untouchable.
The elder raised his hand. "The duel is decided. Draven Noctis stands victorious."
The crowd erupted into chaos—shouts, disbelief, awe, fear.
"He defeated Veyra? With a single tap?""Thirty-six veins… he's a monster!""The sect elders will notice him now."
Veyra was dragged off the stage by fellow disciples, his pride shattered more than his body. His glare promised vengeance, but his fear betrayed him.
Draven stepped down slowly, as though the outcome had never been in doubt. He felt the eyes of elders pierce him, weighing, calculating. Already, sect politics stirred.
Good, he thought, his lips curving faintly. Let them look. Let them scheme. The more they see, the less they will understand.
High above, in the unseen vastness of his mind, the Observatory whispered:
"Chains bind only the weak. Break them, and the path opens. But beware, every chain broken feeds the Seal…"
Draven's eyes flickered. The whisper slid cold into his veins. He bowed his head slightly, hiding a thin smile.
Every whisper is a lie… and a truth. I will use both.
As the crowd dispersed, murmuring his name like a curse and a prophecy, Draven Noctis walked away from the stage. His first step into the endless web of sect rivalries had been taken.
And already, the night itself seemed to bend around him.