Kael didn't return to the surface that night.
The clash with the Ember Sentinel had torn open wounds he thought had already healed. Beneath his cloak, shadows pulsed sluggishly, trying to knit muscle and mend the damage, but the truth was brutal.
He was still weak.
And weakness in this world was a death sentence.
So, instead of running or fighting, Kael descended deeper—into the old cavern systems long forgotten beneath Ember Fang's outer ridges. Here, where the stone walls breathed the ancient memory of magma, where no light dared enter and even flame qi struggled to spark, Kael found silence.
Not the magical Mute Hollow silence—just pure, natural darkness.
And there, he sat.
He placed both hands on his knees and began to draw his shadows inward, calling on the Night Throne Requiem, not to attack, but to regenerate.
The technique wasn't just for combat—it was a cultivation path designed for survival in forgotten, hopeless places.
"Darkness is the first domain. Silence is its voice. And in stillness, the Sovereign remembers himself."
The words echoed in his mind, not from memory—but from instinct. The Requiem was still unlocking itself to him, fragment by fragment. He had never reached this level before his death. The original version had been broken, incomplete.
Now? It whispered secrets to him.
Shadows wrapped around his ribs like careful fingers, slowing his heartbeat, thickening his blood to promote healing. He sat motionless as time slipped past.
He didn't sleep. He didn't need to.
He remembered.
Flashes of his former clan.
Alira smiling as a child beneath shadow-touched trees.
His blade glowing once—not with darkness, but with loyalty.
And then… fire. Betrayal. Screams behind him.
A voice shouting, "You were never meant to ascend!"
And the cold steel in his back.
He opened his eyes.
The wound across his ribs was gone. The ache behind his eyes, dulled.
Not healed completely—but enough.
Kael stood.
He needed food.
He needed knowledge.
And there was only one place where both could be found without drawing too much attention.
The Earthborne Conflux.
It was more bazaar than sect.
Built into a massive canyon carved by time and cultivation alike, the Earth Sect's stronghold was less fortress, more city—an ancient temple restructured into open-air plazas, trading pavilions, and cultivation courts.
The Earthborne valued commerce over conflict. They welcomed all the elemental sects—so long as they paid or bartered in power. Food, weapons, cultivation pills, slaves, rumors… all passed through the stone corridors of this place.
Kael watched from a ridge above, wearing a sand-colored cloak he had scavenged from a wandering corpse along the canyon's edge.
From here, it looked almost… peaceful.
Fools.
Beneath every smile was a blade. Beneath every handshake, a buried grudge.
But Kael belonged here more than most. The Earthborne wouldn't recognize him. His clan had been erased from the records before they'd even known who their real enemies were.
He descended toward the main plaza.
Vendors shouted from behind carts carved from elemental stone. Earth Qi infused their wares—roasted beast meat that steamed with warmth, preservation talismans for travel rations, and fruits that hummed with faint vibration.
Kael moved like a shadow, buying little, observing much.
He passed by a Flame Sect envoy haggling over blood quartz. A Wind Sect scout watching him through mirrored goggles. A Water Sect noble sipping a cooling tea that pulsed with lunar chill.
Every faction was here.
But none noticed him.
Perfect.
Kael stepped toward one of the quieter corners—where old merchants spoke less of goods and more of gossip.
He bought a bowl of hot grain-meat and settled down nearby, listening.
"Another rupture at the Rift Seal yesterday. Earthborne geomancers were paid triple to contain it."
"The Seer from Ember? Still chained. But she's not screaming anymore. They say the silence is worse."
"A name's resurfaced. Just a whisper. But I heard it through a Wind courier: 'Kael the Black Flame.' Supposedly seen at the edge of Ember Fang."
Kael stilled.
They were already speaking his name.
He was out of time.
But just as he was about to move, a child ran past, knocking into him. She paused only briefly—eyes wide as they locked onto his.
And Kael saw something there.
Recognition.
Not from the child—but from what was watching through her.
His mark. The shadow inside him had been noticed.
He stood immediately and vanished into the flow of bodies.
They knew.
Someone was watching. Testing. Waiting.
But for now, he had what he needed: a satchel of dried rations, a talisman map of active spiritual zones across the continent, and more importantly—a target.
If the name Kael the Black Flame had returned to the world, then someone was trying to bait him into revealing himself.
That meant they knew he survived.
Which meant the next move had to be his.