Night pressed down heavy over the sect compound. Torches burned along the walls, their flames guttering in the mountain wind, but shadows pooled thick in every corner. Kaelen lay in the communal dormitory, rows of straw mats stretching out on either side. The other initiates snored, murmured, or shifted restlessly in their sleep.
He stared at the ceiling, motionless.
The laughter from the ceremony still echoed in his ears. Grey serpent. Trash spirit. Worthless. His outward silence had masked it, but every word had sunk into the marrow of his borrowed body.
Inside, though—inside, his serpent stirred.
The Soul Palace quivered, a cavernous darkness threaded with faint veins of light. The serpent coiled within, half-molted now. Its husk had split from jaw to tail, silvery scales beginning to gleam underneath. It pressed against the cracks of its shell, straining, shedding—but still hidden.
Kaelen hissed soundlessly. The pain of the molt was his pain, their existences bound. Agony surged like molten metal through his veins, but he did not twitch, did not cry out. To reveal this secret would be to invite death.
They see only a husk, he thought, jaw clenched. Let them.
A voice broke the stillness.
"You're awake too, aren't you?"
Kaelen's head turned slowly. On the next mat lay a boy not much older than him, with sharp eyes that glimmered in the dark. His name escaped Kaelen—one of the initiates who had laughed, though not the loudest.
"I saw your spirit," the boy whispered, voice low so as not to wake the others. "Ugly thing. But you didn't look shaken. You planning to fool us all, or are you just too dumb to know you're doomed?"
Kaelen said nothing.
The boy smirked in the dark. "Don't worry. I like doomed dogs. They bite hardest. Just don't get in my way." He rolled over, back to him, and soon pretended to sleep.
Kaelen's gaze lingered. A threat, or a strange kind of respect? Hard to tell.
The serpent inside him rasped against its own shell, scales grinding like steel on stone. Another layer shed.
He clenched his fists under the thin blanket.
—
The next morning, bells rang across the compound, waking the initiates. They stumbled out of bed, still heavy with sleep, and gathered in the training grounds.
The grounds were wide stone courts scarred by years of drills. Beyond them, the mountain loomed high, its cliffs shrouded in mist.
The instructor stood waiting. He was a lean man with sunken eyes and arms corded with muscle, his voice cutting like a blade.
"You are here because your spirits were deemed strong enough—or at least not worthless enough—to train. But don't think the ceremony means anything. From this day forward, your worth is decided by your discipline. Those who lag behind will be cast aside. If you can't endure, leave now."
No one moved.
"Good," the instructor barked. "Run!"
The initiates obeyed. Feet pounded against stone as they circled the courtyard. Some groaned, some pushed ahead to show off. Kaelen ran silently, keeping pace.
His body was weaker than many here, but he was precise. He measured his breaths, adjusted his strides, conserving energy. He watched. Always watching.
When they were made to practice stances, Kaelen copied the movements carefully. When they were told to hold until their muscles trembled, he held longer than most, his face unreadable.
The mocking voices from last night returned.
"Look, the grey snake hasn't collapsed yet."
"Trying to impress the instructor, maybe?"
"He'll fall soon enough."
Kaelen ignored them.
Then the instructor demonstrated a Qi circulation pattern. He sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees, and drew in a deep breath. His skin glowed faintly as energy moved through his meridians.
The other initiates squinted, imitating blindly. But Kaelen's eyes sharpened. The world shifted.
Spectral Meridian Insight.
Lines of light flared across the instructor's body, threads weaving from chest to limbs. Kaelen traced the flow—inhale, spiral through the chest, pool in the dantian, flare outward like rivers branching into streams.
Pain spiked in his chest as the serpent within molted again, tearing another husk of itself away.
Kaelen gritted his teeth, but his hands formed the mudras, his breath followed the pattern with uncanny accuracy.
The instructor's gaze flickered toward him. Just for a moment. Then it moved on.
But that moment was enough.
Kaelen lowered his head, careful not to draw attention. His heart thudded with quiet triumph. Each fragment shed was another step forward. Another mask waiting to fall.
—
Days blurred together. Training at dawn, drills till dusk, lectures by candlelight.
Kaelen endured them all. His silence made him an easy target—others shoved him, mocked him, stole his rations. But he never reacted. Not outwardly.
Inside, the serpent shed piece by piece. Its dull skin peeled away, scales gleaming faintly in the darkness of his Soul Palace.
At night, while the dormitory slept, Kaelen sat cross-legged on his mat, eyes closed. He recalled every technique demonstrated that day. His mind replayed the meridian flows, the rhythm of breath, the shifting of Qi.
Piece by piece, he rebuilt them.
One evening, the sharp-eyed boy from before whispered again. "You're too quiet. Either you're weak, or you're planning something."
Kaelen opened his eyes slightly, their glow faint in the dark. "And if I am?"
The boy chuckled, low and dangerous. "Then I'll be watching. If you fall, I'll be the first to step on you. But if you rise… I'll be close enough to take a share."
Rivalry. Not friendship. Not yet. But something that might matter later.
Kaelen shut his eyes again.
Let them mock. Let them sneer. When the serpent wakes fully, the world will choke on its hiss.