The murmurs from Ziren's announcement still lingered in the air, soft and unsure — like no one quite knew how to respond.
Two lesser ferals. The rest of them may as well have been swinging sticks at grass.
Elder Syen let the silence settle for a moment.
Then he spoke — voice clipped, decisive.
"That concludes the rankings."
He flicked his hand.
"Now the trial is over. You'll be given three days to rest and recover before the top sixteen compete again. It will be held in the sect arena."
No one dared complain.
Behind the elder, a sound echoed — distant, yet familiar. A low thunder of massive, rhythmic wings.
The Stormwing.
The same gigantic leather-winged transport beast that had carried them here descended again through the mist, trailing wind and debris. Its wings beat once — twice — then it landed with a heavy, echoing whumph, claws flexing into dirt.
Elder Syen didn't wait.
"Board."
The word cracked like a whip.
Disciples moved. Still weary, still bruised, but no one dared delay. Boots shuffled over stone as they clambered up the beast's ridged back to the platform strapped across its spine.
Riven lingered for a moment longer, still watching the shoulder of the elder.
Still watching the spider.
It hadn't moved since the announcement. Still perched. Still watching him.
Then it moved.
One twitch. Then a blur.
It leapt.
So fast.
Riven blinked — almost staggered — as it landed on his shoulder. Silent. Soft.
Then, like before, it crawled down.
Across the side of his arm. Down his elbow. Toward his hand.
Toward the ink.
He didn't stop it.
He just stood still as it reached the spider tattoo across the back of his hand and tapped it again. Once. Delicate. Like it was knocking.
This time, something answered.
His breath caught.
There — beneath skin, beneath blood — something pulsed. A thread of sensation. Not pain. Not warmth. But presence.
A direction.
Riven's eyes widened slightly as a subtle awareness formed at the edge of his perception. Like a compass needle inside his bones — pointing, faint and certain.
He could feel it.
He could feel where the spider was.
And not just cuz it crouched on the back of his hand.
Even when he closed his eyes — the sense stayed. Like a string stretched between them. Loose. But there.
Riven opened his mouth — said nothing.
Just stared at the creature in front of him as it paused, still perched on his hand.
It stared back.
Elder Syen's voice broke the moment.
He was watching now too, one brow slightly raised.
"…You planning to keep it?" he asked, deadpan.
Riven didn't answer. He wasn't sure he could.
The elder clicked his tongue once. "Thought so. Hurry up. Onto the beast."
As if understanding, the spider stepped back — and leapt away again, vanishing beneath the Stormwing's flank, disappearing into the adjacent forest.
Riven exhaled slowly.
His hand still tingled. That strange tether still lingered, quiet but present, like the faint thrum of a string pulled taut.
Then he turned — and boarded the Stormwing.
The deck beneath his feet was warm from the sun, humming faintly with qi. He found a spot near the rear again, planting himself by the railing just as the final disciples scrambled aboard.
Elder Syen stepped on last, brushing past the others without a word. He moved to the helm at the platform's front, touched a glowing sigil inscribed into the beast's collar —
And the world dropped.
Wings beat.
Wind roared.
And once again, the Stormwing surged into the sky.
Mist scattered behind them as they rose, the forest shrinking fast below, reduced to an ocean of dark leaves and silver thread. The sect's towering cliffs waited somewhere far beyond.
Riven didn't look back.
He closed his eyes again.
Around him was darkness.
And yet still.
He could feel it.
The spider.
Somewhere below, hidden beneath trees and stone — but present. A clear thread pointing toward it like a compass etched into his soul.
He opened his eyes again.
The wind snapped past his face, carrying the sharp scent of clouds and altitude.
What do I do with this?
He didn't know.
The flight back was calm.
Well—almost.
Lara came up to him once saying some words about how he should pray to not go against her in the arena matches.
But he didn't really take it to heart.
He wasn't afraid of a fight with her.
Soon the cliffs of the sect rose into view — jagged and high, looking like the villains castle in a childrens book.
Their Stormwing headed towards one of the highest points in the sect — the landing platform.
As they neared, a flicker passed across Rivens skin — not wind, not qi.
A barrier.
Riven's brows twitched slightly. He hadn't noticed it on the way out, but now on the way back he felt it. A subtle veil wrapped around the sect, humming just below perception.
And then they were through.
The Stormwing beat its wings twice, slowed, and descended.
With a heavy thud and a gust of warm wind, it landed on the cliffside platform as the mist stirred.
"Scatter," Elder Syen said simply, already stepping off.
He didn't even look back.
By the time the disciples began dismounting, he'd already vanished down the stone steps — a blur of robes and presence gone like smoke.
Riven didn't linger either.
He was one of the first to step off the beast's back. A few disciples behind him glanced his way, but none said anything.
Either way, no one followed.
The sect was the same as usual. The trial hadn't done much for the others in the sect. Everyone was still minding their own business.
By the time he reached Jasmine Garden, the sun was hanging low — a pale disc behind the cliffs. The air smelled like moss and rain-washed stone. Familiar.
So called home.
He pushed open the gate to his courtyard.
Cross-legged on the porch with her back to him, Mira sat there, polishing one of her kitchen knives with a cloth that was doing more damage than cleaning. Her head turned slightly when the gate creaked.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
She didn't rise.
"You don't look that wounded."
A pause.
What does that mean?
She went back to cleaning.
If it wasn't such a ridiculous thought, he might've said she looked disappointed.
Shaking his head, he stepped into the courtyard, boots crunching softly against the gravel. The old stone path curved around a low garden bed — jasmine and morningglory, a little wild now. He didn't stop to look. Just kept walking. Into the house.
Once inside, he slipped into his room.
It smelled faintly of dried medicine.
It still hasn't recovered huh.
The space was quiet, familiar. That ever annoying slightly tilted lampstand and the window cracked open just enough to let in a breeze.
He let out a slow breath and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
Finally alone.
And now what?
The fight was over. The first trial finished. And yet...
His fingers curled slightly on his knee.
He could still feel it.
That moment.
That strike.
That kill.
A human life.
Not just a beast this time. Not an insect.
Not something with claws and scales and enough legs to justify it.
He closed his eyes. Tried to breathe past it.
You did what you had to.
He told himself that. Over and over.
And maybe it was even true.
But it didn't feel clean.
Eventually, he leaned forward — elbows on his knees, shoulders sagging.
Enough.
He couldn't sit in this forever.
Riven exhaled, leaned over, and pulled open a small lacquered drawer near the bed. Inside, tucked in cloth, was a nearly empty salve jar. He'd used most of it during his training with Vaern — cuts, bruises, cracked skin from fights with criminals. There was just enough left for one last round.
He dipped his fingers in and began working it into the worst of the bruises.
The cooling sting made his jaw twitch.
Need to get more soon.
From Lumi, of course.
Wonder what she'll say when I show up again so soon.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He almost forgot his previous somber mood.
Almost got happy in anticipation.
But then reality caught up.
He lifted his shirt up, watching the way the bruise around his ribs had already begun to fade.
This salve is really good.
>>>
Three days later.
The courtyard was bright again, the sky high and sharp with wind. His robes were fresh, his injuries faded — but not gone. The deeper ones still hummed when he moved too fast.
Unlike the high platform where the Stormwing had landed, the arena grounds were set lower — nestled in the bowl of several half-height mountains. In the middle, a natural stone isle had formed, ringed on all sides by rising slopes. The mountainsides themselves had been carved into tiered seating, and at the center of it all were five flat, open arenas — smoothed and marked for combat.
The disciples called this place the Fangcradle.
Riven stepped onto the walkway leading down, the stone warm beneath his boots. Around him, voices stirred. Disciples gathered. The tension had returned.
He scanned the space — not for who was missing, but for who might already be there.
And across the arena floor—
Someone was already waiting.