The wolf's corpse steamed where it lay, its twisted essence dissolving into smoke. He stood over it, trembling, his half-formed claws dripping with black ichor. Hunger surged inside him, clawing at his mind like a starving beast.
And then—he felt it. The essence of the wolf, ragged and snarling, drawn toward him. Not devoured by fangs or claws, but pulled into the dim serpent coiled inside his chest.
Agony followed.
His body locked, convulsing, as the serpent drank. Its dull grey coils brightened faintly, its scales sharpening from smoke to faint, solid outlines. The wolf's wailing soul shattered inside him, dissolving into nothing but a rush of strength.
He gasped. The hunger dulled. His essence steadied. For the first time since rebirth, he felt less like ash and more like something alive.
The serpent coiled tighter and went still.
He staggered, breathless though he had no need for air, and stared at his own hands. Shadow had reshaped into skin, crude and pale but passable. His reflection in the wolf's bloodied pool was faintly human—a gaunt boy of about twelve winters, eyes hollow and grey, face unremarkable.
A disguise.
He hadn't studied it, hadn't practiced. Yet instinct—no, perhaps the slave seal's command—had shown him how to wear this mask. His form blurred when he willed it, smoothing away the smoky edges until he looked like any other starved youth wandering the night.
This will do, he thought grimly.
The howls of other beasts echoed through the forest. He didn't wait. He ran, unsteady but quick, clutching his new body as if afraid it would fall apart.
—
By dawn, the forest thinned. Walls rose in the distance: tall, scarred stone, etched with faint blue veins of light. A barrier city. Human stronghold.
The moment he saw it, something inside him tightened. Memories flickered—dim but familiar. Streets. Voices. A boy's laughter. The world of flesh and blood he had once belonged to.
Now he approached it as a stranger. Worse—a spy.
The barrier hummed as he drew close, rippling like water. Arrays glowed faintly, fed by the atmosphere's Qi. It should have rejected him, he realized. He was spirit, born of abyss. But the mask he wore pulsed, thin and fragile, hiding his essence.
He stepped through. The barrier parted.
No alarms. No flare of light. No hunters dropping from the wall. Relief rushed through him, but he kept his face blank. The chains of the seal reminded him—always reminded him—obedience or annihilation.
The gates loomed ahead. A pair of guards lounged there, spears crossed, eyeing him with open suspicion.
"Halt."
He did.
The older guard squinted. "You from the outer villages?"
His throat dried. He had no story prepared. But instinct stirred, and words came, flat but steady. "Orphan. The village burned. I walked all night."
The guard's eyes softened. The younger one sneered. "Another stray. Pathetic. What's your name, boy?"
He hesitated. A name. His past life's was hazy, almost lost. His current form had none. But he needed one. Something plain. Something no one would question.
"…Kaelen," he said finally.
The guards exchanged glances. The older one sighed, waving him through. "Get yourself to the registrar. If you're of age, the sect might test you. If not—plenty of work for small hands."
Kaelen bowed his head in thanks and passed.
Each step inside the city felt surreal. Cobblestone streets. Lanterns guttering in the morning breeze. People shouting over stalls, children chasing each other with sticks, merchants hawking food. The air was thick with scents—bread, smoke, sweat—so different from the cold hunger of the abyss.
It almost felt like he belonged.
Almost.
Because everywhere he looked, he saw what he no longer was. Flesh. Heat. Souls untainted by chains. He was a mask, a shadow wrapped in skin. If the disguise slipped even for a moment, if the serpent inside stirred too visibly, he would be torn apart.
He forced himself onward.
The sect's presence dominated the city. A sprawling compound sat on the hill, its walls gleaming, its towers ringed with guardian arrays. Children filed in through an outer gate, some carrying wooden training swords, others simply running with laughter. All wore the same white sashes—the mark of initiates.
His chains flared. Enter. Wear the mask. Learn their ways. Steal what we command.
He gritted his teeth but obeyed.
The registrar's hall was crowded. Dozens of children waited, some with hopeful faces, others sullen. Masters in dark robes moved among them, recording names, checking tokens, guiding lines.
Kaelen slipped in at the back. He was just another orphan with nothing to his name. Perfect.
When his turn came, an elder with a hawk nose eyed him up and down. "Thin. Underfed. Hardly worth the ink."
Kaelen lowered his gaze, saying nothing.
The elder snorted. "Name?"
"Kaelen."
The brush scratched against parchment. "Age?"
"Twelve."
"Then you're due. Spirit manifestation at dawn tomorrow. Be there or beg on the streets. Next!"
Dismissed, he stepped aside.
The hall buzzed with chatter. Some children whispered excitedly about the test, about which beast might appear when their spirits were called forth. Wolves for strength, hawks for speed, bears for endurance. Others fretted, terrified of failure.
Kaelen sat in silence. He knew what they didn't. His spirit had already manifested.
The serpent stirred faintly, its dull eyes watching. To others, it would look unimpressive. Weak. Worthless. That was good. Let them laugh. Let them dismiss him.
For within his chest, the serpent's coils tightened. And though its body was faint, though its presence was dim, he knew the truth:
It would grow.
And when it did, the world would regret ever underestimating it.