The taste of dust and copper lingered on Arin's tongue, a stale reminder of the chaos he had left behind. He ran until the screams of Kaelor Vynn's zealots were swallowed by the dense thicket of the Ashveil woods. When he finally collapsed beneath the skeletal branches of a withered Elder tree, he wasn't merely tired; he was hollowed out.
Every muscle screamed in protest, but the true exhaustion was spiritual. The brief, violent ignition of the Divinity Mark had not just shattered a sword; it had leveraged his very life force. It felt as if a demanding tenant had moved into his soul and immediately started tearing down walls.
He touched the crescent scar on his collarbone. It was cool again, inert, but underneath the skin, the area throbbed with a deep, consuming emptiness. He was weaker now than he had been before the execution attempt. The power was absolute, a magnificent cheat, but the payment was ruinous.
"If that single moment cost me this much energy, a sustained fight would empty me," he realised, drawing a shallow, ragged breath. This confirmed the grim reality: the Mark was tied to an intense energy drain, a power he had not earned but borrowed at crippling interest. He was still a mortal vessel, his body unprepared for the sheer density of divine essence.
He leaned his head back against the bark, letting the adrenaline finally leak out. The silence of the forest was a heavy, temporary blanket. He was alive, yes, but he was a target now, publicly llabelleda Divine Vessel. Kaelor Vynn, driven by zealotry, would not stop at village guards. Soon, there would be assassins from the Cultivation Kingdoms, or worse, direct intervention from the lower ranks of the Celestial Tribunal.
Survival requires more than instinct now. It requires power.
He dipped a hand into a small, naturally formed pool of rainwater nearby, bringing the cold liquid to his lips. As the water settled, its surface became perfectly smooth, reflecting the muted grey sky and something else.
A flicker of silver, a refraction that defied the laws of optics.
In the reflection, the water didn't hold Arin's face. It held Seliora's. Not the shattered, screaming image from the execution block, but a calmer, more defined fragment of the Moonlight Goddess. Her eyes, vast and sorrowful, looked directly into his. She was a being made of pure, crystalline light, her form shifting like smoke across the surface of the pool.
"Runners… are slow," the voice echoed, not in his ears, but in the deepest chamber of his spirit. The goddess's fragmented consciousness was barely holding together, her words appearing as pure thought, layered with ancient regret. "You cannot outrun the Tribunal's dogs, Arin. They see the scent of the Lunari on your soul."
Arin stared, mesmerised and terrified. This was a clearer connection, and it was a thousand times more unsettling than the primal shock of the blast.
'Then where do I go? I have nothing,' he projected back, a desperate plea in his mind.
A thin, graceful finger of moonlight extended from the reflection, pointing southwest.
"The Duskwind Sect. A shallow well of ambition and conceit. Their masters pursue the Ascendant Plane but are blind to true divinity. They seek power that is easily measured, easily controlled. They will see your mark as a deformity, but they will accept your strength if you can prove it."
'Why there? Why a place that will mock me?'
"Because they are too blind to see the difference between a deformity and a seal. And because the fragment I lost in the Triallands is closest to that place. Go, Arin Solmere. Hide your moon-fire among their dull embers. Cultivate in their shadow, where the Tribunal will assume you are just another ambitious mortal."
The reflection shimmered, then fractured. The water was still, showing only Arin's own grim face, framed by the dense forest. But the direction, the objective, was now undeniable. Duskwind Sect.
The sect was infamous in the region a sprawling complex of stone towers nestled in the foothills, known for producing arrogant, privileged disciples who looked down on the common folk. It was the last place Arin, the cursed orphan, should seek refuge. Which was precisely why it was the best place.
He needed to rapidly ascend the Cultivation Path—not slowly, patiently, like an ordinary mortal, but exponentially. He needed to go from the Flesh-Touched stage to the Blood-Engraved stage, and beyond, with terrifying speed. He needed resources, techniques, and the cover of a major power structure, however corrupt.
If I don't become strong enough to withstand the next strike, I die. And if I die, the price she paid to touch me will be wasted.
A fierce, cold resolve settled in his heart. His goal wasn't just to save his own life anymore, but to save the life of the essence bound to him. The divine war had begun, and he was the unwilling champion. He would use the Duskwind Sect to train, to exploit, and to gather the strength needed to stand against the heavens themselves.
As he rose to his feet, stretching his weakened limbs, his mind drifted back to Lyra.
Her tear-streaked face. Her unwavering belief in him.
He knew that if he fully embraced the raw, unchecked power Seliora offered, he could become a god in months. But the Law of Balance was clear: too much divinity too fast meant corruption, the erosion of one's mortal core. He would become a vessel, a beautiful, powerful husk with no trace of the boy she knew.
Lyra was his tether. She was the reason he was calculating, not ruthless. She was his defence against becoming another broken piece of the divine war. He didn't want to be Seliora's replacement; he wanted to be Arin, just strong enough to defy the chains that bound them both.
He was a mortal rewriting divine destiny, but he needed a mortal anchor to stop the pen from shattering his hand.
He turned southwest, toward the distant, hazy shadow of the mountains where the sect lay. He was hungry, exhausted, and running on borrowed, volatile power.
A sound, faint but distinct, reached him through the trees the jingle of metal and the muffled bark of a trained hunting dog. Kaelor Vynn's people were closer than he thought.
He pressed his hand over the Mark, feeling the subtle, cold throb of the sleeping goddess. He pushed past the pain of exhaustion and began to run again, now with purpose.
The journey to the Duskwind Sect would be measured in days, but his survival would be measured in hours. He had to cross the lowlands, evade the hunters, and somehow, as a cursed, uninitiated orphan ,convince the arrogant masters of the sect that he was worth taking in.
Let them mock the curse, Arin thought, forcing his legs faster. They will learn soon enough that a curse is just a god's shattered promise.