Just when the crowd had begun to thin—voices fading, steps turning away—something changed.A few lingered. Then more.Within moments, the clearing was filled again.
Huo Lin stood at the edge of the clearing, basking in his hollow victory. Chen Zai had been dragged off by two outer sect disciples, his face pale, arm hanging limp.
Kael remained by the trees, arms folded.
Beside him, Little Abacus scribbled furiously.
"Bet you didn't expect that twist," the boy whispered. "Chen Zai's cousin might protest to the elders, but without witnesses—"
He stopped.
Kael felt it too.
A shift.
A current.
The kind that moved before a storm.
A figure stepped into the clearing from the far path.
His robe was white. Plain. But somehow clean.
A saber hung from his back—not ceremonial, not decorative.
Worn.
Used.
He walked without hurry.
But every step made the others quiet.
Eyes turned.
Even Huo Lin froze.
"Riven," someone whispered.
Kael frowned. The name stirred something vague. He'd heard it before. Once, maybe twice. Always in passing. Never with detail.
The boy stopped in the center of the circle.
His expression was neutral.
Not smug.
Not angry.
Just… aware.
He looked at Huo Lin.
Then at the blood on the ground.
Then said, voice soft but clear:
"Did you win by skill, or by status?"
Huo Lin bristled. "What's it to you?"
"I dislike wasted lessons," Riven said.
Then drew his saber.
No shout.
No warning.
Just motion.
The blade left its sheath with a soft hiss of steel.
Huo Lin reacted—swinging defensively—but he was too slow. Riven's form was precise, feet pivoting on the dry leaves, posture fluid.
One step in.
A flick of the wrist.
Riven's saber struck Huo Lin's blade with a force that didn't match its speed. There was a sharp clang—then Huo Lin's sword spiraled out of his hand, landing with a soft thunk in the dirt.
Riven wasn't done.
His second motion came faster than the first.
A pivot, then a strike—not to kill, but to unbalance. The flat of the blade slammed against Huo Lin's ribs. The boy dropped to one knee with a grunt, arm wrapped around his side.
He wheezed, but stayed conscious.
Riven stood over him, the saber's tip hovering an inch from the grass.
He didn't follow up.
Didn't gloat.
Just sheathed his saber with a smooth click.
Then turned.
And walked away.
The clearing was silent.
Even Little Abacus stopped writing.
Kael narrowed his eyes.
That wasn't just technique.
That was control.
Speed. Precision. Restraint.
And something else.
Something Kael couldn't name.
But he recognized it.
Because he didn't have it.
Yet.
The bottle pulsed once beneath his robe.
He didn't touch it.
Didn't need to.
It had felt it too.