For a moment, the entire arena was silent.

No footsteps. No whispers. Just the soft crackle of settling dust where Lao had fallen, unconscious, sabre shattered, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

Then—

Chirp!

Vedik swooped down from the rafters, gliding in lazy loops before landing neatly on Aaryan's shoulder. His feathers shimmered faintly in the arena's glow, eyes gleaming with smug delight.

That was all it took.

The dam broke.

Cheers erupted like thunder. Stomps, whistles, even wild applause from the packed stands. Cultivators leaned forward, voices rising in disbelief and excitement.

"Did he break that sabre with his bare hands?"

"Who the hell is that kid?"

"Lao's a fourth-stage! That's no joke!"

The boy stood tall in the centre of it all, calm and quiet. Dust clung to his sleeves. His knuckles, still faintly humming with residual qi, relaxed by his sides.

He didn't smile.

Viyom, on the other hand, looked like he'd swallowed a burning coal.

His face was twisted in a cocktail of rage and disbelief, mouth half-open as if still trying to process what had happened. The girls who had clung to him earlier were now frozen, staring at Aaryan with wide, dumbstruck eyes.

Even Viyom's other bodyguards looked shaken. One of them took an unconscious step back from the pit's edge.

"You… useless oaf," Viyom hissed, kicking a chair aside. "Four stages in, a second-grade weapon, and you let some no-name street rat shatter your blade like it was firewood?!"

Lao groaned faintly from the arena floor but didn't rise.

Viyom clenched his fists, knuckles pale. His pride—the invincible aura he wore like fine robes—had been torn and soiled in front of half the Underground. He looked around and found only eyes watching. Judging. Smirking.

He cursed again, this time under his breath, and stormed away from the railing.

Back in the centre, Aaryan turned and walked quietly toward the exit of the pit, Vedik still perched like a prince on his shoulder, wings slightly puffed.

As he passed the edge of the ring, a few in the crowd parted, giving him space. Not out of fear—at least not yet—but respect, the kind that only came after real strength was shown.

Aaryan stood still as Viyom stepped down from the viewing platform. The crowd had begun to disperse, murmuring about what they'd just seen. But a small circle had formed around them now—whispers silenced by tension.

Viyom's face was flushed, eyes bloodshot with rage barely leashed. He walked up until he was face to face with Aaryan. Vedik hissed softly from Aaryan's shoulder, silver eyes fixed on the young master.

"Well?" Aaryan said, his voice calm. "Are you going to honour the contract?"

Viyom's jaw tightened. His breath came sharp through clenched teeth. "Do you really want to do this?" he hissed. "We can just end it here. Let bygones be bygones. You'll gain something far more valuable than spirit stones or weapons—my friendship."

Aaryan tilted his head slightly, amused. "Friendship?" He gave a light laugh. "From a man who wanted to buy my companion like a trinket and threatened me when I refused? Sorry… I'm just a rat, remember?" His eyes narrowed. "A rat isn't worthy of a young master's friendship."

Viyom's eyes twitched.

For a second, it looked like he would attack. But instead, he tore the ring from his finger and flung it at Aaryan.

Aaryan caught it with one hand. It was heavier, sturdier, and far better than the simple one he wore now.

Aaryan didn't gloat. He simply turned to leave.

And stopped.

Two guards stepped in his path. Then two more behind him. They were Viyom's men—still armed, still dangerous, and no longer stunned.

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Aaryan's gaze didn't change. "So… this is how a young master of a prestigious clan honours his word?"

Behind him, Viyom's mocking laughter echoed. "I did honour the contract," he said, voice thick with venom. "I gave you the prize. Let's see if you're strong enough to keep it."

A few in the crowd whispered, unsure whether to watch or walk away.

The guards stepped forward, hands hovering over their weapons.

Aaryan didn't move.

Vedik growled softly, his talons flexing on Aaryan's shoulder, hidden in illusions, flame starting to emerge from his mouth.

The circle around them widened again. Whispers rose. Some spectators stayed, eager for more violence. Others turned away, unwilling to interfere with clan business.

Aaryan sighed quietly. He turned his head slightly, cracking his neck.

"If this is how it has to be," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

His eyes narrowed—not with fear, but clarity. His fingers curled around the new ring, still pulsing faintly with Qi. It hadn't even been ten minutes since the duel, and already he could feel the next battle breathing down his neck.

A fair fight won, a contract sealed—yet still, they wanted more blood. Typical.

The forge was harsh. Steel only sharpened in fire.

And right now, he had no plans of bending.

Silver qi rippled beneath Aaryan's skin, building in his dantian like a flood pressing against a dam. His eyes darkened. Just a moment more, and he would let it burst free.

But then— "Khhak! KHAK-KHEMMM!"

A sudden cough sliced through the tension, harsh and wheezy, like an old bellows groaning in a forge long forgotten.

Everyone turned.

From a far corner of the underground arena, where smoke hung thick and pitch-dark shadows clung to the walls, a figure emerged. Hunched. Limping. Draped in a robe that looked like it had lost a fight with moths and time. A twisted iron cane scraped the stone floor, and his long white beard—frayed and unwashed—spilled down his chest like a waterfall of neglect. Wild eyebrows twitched with each step, and his eyes gleamed with unsettling clarity, far too sharp for someone who otherwise looked like he belonged in a grave.

Aaryan's silver Qi stilled.

It was him.

That old man from the alley.

Vedik chirped once, uncertainly, and then promptly buried his head beneath his wing.

"Uncle Soot..." someone in the crowd whispered.

And just like that, the tension twisted in on itself.

Aaryan glanced around. All the posturing, all the violence, all the arrogance that had gripped the arena—it vanished the moment those two words were uttered. Viyom, red in the face just seconds ago, now stood pale, his mouth half open and unsure whether to speak or run.

Uncle Soot was infamous.

A mystery.

No one knew where he came from. No one knew how strong he really was. But the clans—the actual clans—had issued quiet orders not to offend him. Ever. Not because they respected him, but because he was unpredictable, eccentric, and—according to rumours—completely unhinged. Someone who once blew up an entire spirit weapon forge because they charged him one extra spirit stone. Another time, he'd thrown a young noble into a pigsty for interrupting his nap.

The old man hobbled faster than he had any right to, dragging his cane behind him like an afterthought. He reached Aaryan's side and glanced once at the stunned crowd, then leaned toward the boy.

"Well," he rasped, "looks like the training arc starts now."

Aaryan blinked. "…What?"

"Don't talk too much in transition scenes," Uncle Soot muttered, swatting his cane lightly at Aaryan's shin. "Ruins the pacing."

Then, without another word, he turned and began hobbling away.

Aaryan hesitated—but then he looked around.

The guards who had stood in his path had quietly stepped aside.

Viyom clenched his fists but didn't say a word. Not even he would risk provoking the old man.

Vedik made a pleased chirp and nudged Aaryan's cheek.

"…Guess I'm going," Aaryan murmured.

He followed the limping figure through the path the crowd instinctively cleared. Not a single person tried to stop them.

Whatever lay ahead—training arc or madness—it had just begun.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The streets above the Underground were quieter, the skies already beginning to bleed into dusk. Aaryan walked beside the limping old man in silence, the only sound being the clack of Uncle Soot's twisted cane and the occasional wheeze that might've been a breath or a laugh—or both.

Aaryan finally glanced sideways. "Where are we going?"

"Wherever you're going," Uncle Soot said, as if it were obvious. "Take me to where you're staying."

Aaryan furrowed his brows. "Why?"

The old man scratched his beard with a finger that looked more soot than skin. "Well, how else do mentorship arcs start? Of course. Don't worry, I won't eat your rations. Unless they're good. Are they good?"

Aaryan stopped walking. "What?"

Uncle Soot stopped too, blinking up at him. "Are you always this slow, or is this a protagonist thing?"

Aaryan sighed and led the way. When they reached the inn, the innkeeper's jaw almost hit the floor at the sight of the soot-covered lunatic behind him.

"I need another room," Aaryan said.

"For him?" the innkeeper asked.

"For me?" Soot interjected. "Yes, yes. And make sure it's not shared. I don't like sharing rooms with strangers. Unless she's a beautiful woman—then I tolerate the disappointment."

Aaryan rolled his eyes. "Unbelievable."

"Oh ho?" Uncle Soot smirked. "A sarcastic protagonist? One with a functioning brain? This arc might actually be interesting."

"Don't flatter me. I already regret this."

"Perfect! Regret is the first step toward enlightenment," Soot chirped, then promptly began scratching his back with the end of his cane.

Room key in hand, Aaryan climbed the stairs with Uncle Soot still limping along behind him. When they reached Aaryan's room, the old man didn't hesitate. He pushed past him and waddled in, immediately settling into the chair by the window like it was a throne built for madmen.

Aaryan closed the door, wary. "Are you going to explain anything now, or—"

"Take out the sword," Soot interrupted, waving his hand lazily. "And have your dragon spit out that ore as well."

Vedik peeked out from the bedding, blinking.

Aaryan narrowed his eyes. "Wait…how did you?"

Uncle Soot grinned. "Boy, I know more about you than the author does. Now quit asking questions and give me the damn sword."

Aaryan didn't know whether to be annoyed or alarmed.

But he reached into his ring, and pulled out the Dawnshard that the strange old man had asked for—because deep down, a part of him knew…

This was the start of something important.

Or dangerous.

Possibly both.

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