The Skill Pavilion loomed in silence, its stone walls glistening with night mist. Carved dragons wound across the doors, their scales catching the faint glow of four lanterns that burned steadily at the entrance.
Two guards in silver-trimmed robes stood watch. Their eyes flicked to the seal in Zed's hand, then to his face. One leaned slightly toward the other and muttered, "The clan's disappointment." The other smirked but stepped aside.
Zed ignored them and walked in.
The air inside was cool and heavy with dust. Rows of shelves stretched into the dimness, torches crackling weakly along the walls. Old parchment and faint incense mixed into a smell that reminded him of long-shut rooms.
The first floor spread wide before him. This was where the clan placed the lesser techniques, the ones available to all. Above him, he could see faint light flickering through the latticed floorboards of the higher levels, where glowing seals barred entry. Those were meant for geniuses—he had no right to even think of them.
He moved through the aisles, fingertips brushing cracked spines. Titles leapt out in faded ink.
Iron Ox Stance. Heavy Boulder Steps. Tiger Roar Form.
Strength and power. Skills for people with bodies like boulders. He passed them without pause.
Farther back, where fewer torches burned, the shelves sagged under the weight of forgotten scrolls. Here, dust lay thick, and cobwebs stretched in corners. Zed crouched, tugging one slim scroll free.
Shadowfoot Movement.
The diagrams showed light steps, balance shifted from heel to toe. Movements designed to vanish between heartbeats. His lips tightened. This one fits me better. He set it carefully aside.
Another scroll caught his attention. Its cover was brittle, edges worn from hands that had long since given up on it.
Asura's Breath.
The parchment within was strange—spirals drawn where diagrams of straight lines should be, ribcages sketched with jagged arrows. The breathing instructions were incomplete, words trailing off mid-sentence as though pieces were missing. It looked half-ruined, but something about its patterns pulled at him.
Before he could study further, voices drifted down the aisle.
Two cousins emerged from the shadows, robes lined with silver thread, snake-scale belts gleaming under torchlight. The taller one's hair was unruly, his dark brown eyes rimmed with green that glinted in the dim.
He stopped, a grin tugging at his lips. "Asura's Breath? Even the grand elders gave up on that. Trash skill for the clan's trash heir."
The younger cousin gave a low laugh. "Careful. He might choke on the first pattern."
Zed tightened his hold on the scrolls. He adjusted them under his arm and walked past, keeping his eyes forward. Their laughter followed him, fading as the torches dimmed behind.
On a nearby shelf he found one last text—Void Fangs, a combat form full of sharp, relentless strikes. The pages looked incomplete, but the idea of wearing an opponent down by endurance suited him.
With Shadowfoot Movement, Asura's Breath, and Void Fangs tucked under his arm, he stepped back into the night. The cold air filled his lungs, sharp and steady.
Outside, the night had deepened. The path ahead was lit by stone lanterns, their flames dancing against the cobbled walkway. To his left, the lake shimmered under moonlight, faint ripples disturbed by darting fish. Fireflies glowed in clusters near the willow trees, their lights winking like fallen stars.
He followed the winding path north, past the Zen garden where raked sand gleamed silver in the dark. The hum of night insects filled the air. Ahead, the tiled roof of the Weapons Pavilion came into view, its edges curved in a sharp upward sweep. Torches burned bright at its gates, throwing long shadows against the stone lions that guarded the entrance.
Two armored sentries stood watch here as well, halberds crossed until they saw the seal. Without a word, they allowed him through.
Inside, the smell of oil and metal struck him immediately. Weapon racks lined both walls: spears and halberds on the left, blades and sabers on the right. Further back, cases of bows, quivers of arrows, even coils of chain rested in neat rows. Some racks were full of gleaming steel, others cluttered with rusted, discarded pieces left for training.
Zed walked the aisles slowly. His hand hovered near a long sword but fell away—the weight would be too much. He paused at a bow, tracing the polished wood, but set it aside. Too much space between me and the target. If I miss, I'm finished.
Daggers caught his eye next. Short, balanced, the kind hunters carried at their belts. He lifted one, testing the weight in his palm. The grip fit him better than anything else.
He moved on, noticing a staff propped in the corner—its length smooth, worn by use. His fingers tightened on the dagger as he imagined the two together. What if I could combine them? A weapon that hides one inside the other… something versatile. Something mine.
Near a pile of scrap, he found lengths of chain, thinner than those used for binding beasts. He coiled one in his hand, feeling the pull of its weight. If I tied these to a dagger, I could throw and recall it. Even use it like a whip.
The thoughts came faster than his hands could keep up. Staff, chain, daggers—nothing perfect, but perhaps something workable if he learned to adapt.
By the time he left the pavilion, Zed carried two hunting daggers, a length of chain, and the staff. The guards gave him curious looks but said nothing.
As he walked back toward his quarters, the moon had climbed high. The fireflies still drifted by the lake, their glow faint but steady. Zed shifted the daggers in his grip, the chain coiled at his side. The scrolls pressed against his ribs with every step. The night was quiet, broken only by the soft hum of insects and the ripple of the lake. He kept walking.