Aaryan's eyes were closed.

The silence of the night pressed in around him, but within, his world was anything but still.

He sat cross-legged in the dim seclusion of his dwelling, spine straight, breath even. His soul force—willpower honed through countless trials—stirred gently like threads unravelling in slow motion.

The Heavenly Silken Mask Art had two parts: the Silken Flash and the Silken Shadow. He had already skimmed through the Silken Flash—the art of false appearances, shifting facial features and disguising physical traits. That part could be learned incrementally. But this… this was Silken Shadow. A whole different beast.

It didn't just change appearance.

It altered aura—the subtle energy signature every cultivator carried. Their spiritual scent.

Their presence.

Their emotional tone.

Even their karmic weight, for those who could sense such things.

To master it, a cultivator wove soul-threads into a new identity, laying them like silk over their spiritual core. Each thread was spun from a soul needle—thin as spider-hair, strong as iron—and once aligned, the weave cloaked the true self beneath a phantom presence.

Aaryan tried to conjure the first soul needle. His focus sharpened.

Nothing.

He gritted his teeth and tried again, anchoring his breath, tightening his awareness into a single, unwavering point.

A flicker.

A brief silver shimmer in his mind's eye—then it snapped.

Tch. Again.

The problem wasn't the effort—it was the calm.

A single ripple of emotion, a stray thought—and the needle collapsed. No needle, no thread. No shadow.

It was a technique meant for spies, ghosts, and assassins… not loud-mouthed tricksters with grudges in their hearts and a bone-deep itch for chaos.

Still, Aaryan persisted.

Hours bled into days. The second day passed. Then the third.

It wasn't like forging qi or tempering the body. It was... quieter. Like threading a needle in a dream while trying not to wake up.

On the fifth day, he managed to hold the needle.

On the sixth, he spun a single thread.

By the seventh, he could make four at once. They shimmered faintly around him—barely visible even to his spiritual senses—but they were there.

Now came the harder part: weaving.

Unlike the Silken Flash, the Silken Shadow could not be done piece by piece. Not truly.

You couldn't just dim a hand or shroud your back. Even a sliver of true aura was enough to betray everything.

A single uncovered fragment of aura—just one leak—was enough for a perceptive cultivator to unravel the whole lie.

So, the entire body had to be done in one go. All or nothing.

He started with a basic form—a simple cloaking shadow meant only to alter the tone of his spiritual pressure. Not enough to pass as another person, but enough to become no one. A stranger in a crowd. The kind of presence people noticed… then forgot.

Even that basic disguise demanded absolute precision.

Every thread had to wrap simultaneously. Every strand aligned to a fabricated rhythm. One wrong twitch—one spike of irritation or stray memory—and the thread would snap. Sometimes, the whole veil would collapse and he'd have to begin again.

By the ninth day, his nails were dug into his palms as he held the full weave for longer than five breaths.

By the fourteenth, his soul threads responded like silk following a loom's rhythm.

He adjusted the aura carefully—lowered it, softened the emotional resonance. If someone entered now, they might sense a cautious, humble soul. Someone new to cultivation. Someone not worth looking at twice.

On the sixteenth night, moonlight gleamed faintly across his skin.

Aaryan opened his eyes.

And for the first time in days, he wasn't there.

Not really. Not in the way others would sense him.

The air around him felt muted, his presence deliberately dulled. Like the ghost of a man who hadn't quite died.

A shadow wearing a smile.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The heavy gates of the area where the core disciple quarters were creaked open as Elder Kiyan stepped inside, his robes trailing behind him in a swirl of black and crimson. The servants bowed deeply, but the old man barely acknowledged them. His sharp gaze swept across the courtyard, eyes narrowing.

Rudra sat beneath the blooming plum tree, the petals drifting over his shoulders like snow. A solemn figure carved in stillness.

But beneath the stillness, his mind was anything but quiet. The petals kept falling—soft, silent, persistent. Like memories he couldn't brush away.

Kiyan's frown softened. He hadn't seen his grandson since the core disciple promotions had been finalized. His heart swelled with pride at the sight. The boy had always been gifted, always exceptional. Now, he finally had the title to match.

"You've done well," Kiyan said as he approached, voice tinged with genuine warmth. "A core disciple. Just like I always said you would be."

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He studied Rudra's face, nodding slightly. "Not just anyone could have endured what you did. Most would've lashed out. Broken. But you… you held your head high."

His voice deepened with pride. "The elders have noticed. Even the cowards who doubted me are changing their tune. You're not just standing among the core now—you're on the path to lead them. Even now, you sit there like a prince in exile. Still waters, Rudra. Still waters and sharp blades."

Rudra raised his head slowly. "Grandfather," he greeted, the word barely more than a breath.

That was all he said.

Kiyan chuckled, mistaking the lack of enthusiasm for humility. "Heh, modest now, are we? Not like before. You used to strut about like a storm on legs, looking down on everyone who dared meet your gaze. That confidence—no, that arrogance—that was your birthright."

He smiled, his voice growing fonder. "You were a force, Rudra. The elders feared offending you, the disciples envied you, and you—heh, you basked in it. As you should."

But Rudra didn't respond.

The smile faded from Kiyan's face. He stepped closer, his sharp eyes studying his grandson more carefully now. That spark, that fire—where had it gone?

There was no pride in Rudra's gaze. No contempt. No hunger.

Just silence.

"Tch." Kiyan clicked his tongue. "Still thinking about that boy, aren't you?"

Silence again.

The elder's tone darkened, tinged with loathing. "That lowborn rat. Aaryan. He did this to you. Ever since we came back from that meeting, it's like you've forgotten who you are."

He turned his back to Rudra, arms folding behind him. "I should've had that filth executed before he ever stepped foot back in the sect. Had I known he'd grow into such a nuisance, I would've ended him with my own hands."

No response. Just that same carved-stone stillness, as if time had forgotten him.

Kiyan's voice softened, as if addressing a child. "Listen to me, Rudra. That boy is nothing. He was born from dirt, shaped by luck, and fed by chaos. He doesn't have what you have. He never will."

He turned back toward his grandson, voice quieter now. "Sooner or later, he'll get what's coming to him. People like him always do."

That's when Rudra moved.

He shifted slightly, his head tilting upward, eyes finally meeting his grandfather's. There was a flicker of something there. Something unreadable.

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice low. Calm. Too calm.

Kiyan's brow arched in surprise, then a smile stretched across his face. Interest—finally. Perhaps the fire hadn't died completely.

He leaned in a little, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I don't know the details, nor should I. It's better for you to know as little as possible. There are forces in the sect that don't tolerate anomalies, Rudra. He doesn't see the eyes on him—the hands moving behind the curtain. One way or another… that worm will learn his place. If fate is merciful, he'll disappear. If not—he'll suffer. Either way, it's inevitable."

Rudra's gaze held his for a long, tense moment. Then slowly, his eyes drifted away.

"I want you to stay away from him," Kiyan added sharply. "And away from any chaos he might stir. You've already been tarnished once. Don't let it happen again."

He placed a hand on Rudra's shoulder, firm. "For the next few weeks, don't leave this residence unless absolutely necessary. The walls have ears, and some things are better left untouched."

Rudra didn't flinch at the touch, but neither did he acknowledge it.

"You'll rise higher than anyone else here," Kiyan continued. "You're my grandson. Our bloodline is destined to stand above the rest. While that boy... he'll be forgotten like dust swept off a scroll. That is justice. That is revenge."

He stepped back, satisfied. "Just focus on training. That's all I ask."

Kiyan turned to go, robes fluttering behind him like a trailing stormcloud.

He didn't see it.

The faintest frown that tugged at Rudra's lips.

The crease forming slowly between his brows.

A tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before.

Something passed through his eyes—unease, perhaps. Or doubt.

No one could tell what Rudra was truly thinking.

Not even Kiyan.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The morning light spilled over the sect grounds in soft, golden strokes, brushing against tiled rooftops and awakening the faint mist that still clung to the stone paths. Aaryan moved through it quietly, his robe sleeves catching the breeze like loose sails. His steps were unhurried, but his mind was set. After two days of rest, the soreness in his soul had dulled, but not vanished. The silken shadow had taken more out of him than he'd expected.

He needed herbs—strong ones—to help hasten his soul recovery. Practicing the Soul Anvil Technique had made one thing clear: he couldn't afford to spend a full day recovering after every session. If he wanted to reach Spirit Awakening before the end of the season, he needed to keep going. Relentlessly.

The Exchange Hall loomed ahead—an imposing structure of dark wood and slate, its entrance wide and constantly shifting as disciples moved in and out. Some clutched pouches tight, others flipped through scrolls or trinkets. A low hum filled the air inside, thick with the scent of herbs, parchment, and ink. The stalls buzzed with muted bartering. Vendors lounged behind their counters, some confident, some hawking their wares with weary persistence.

Aaryan blended into the flow, weaving his way past a few familiar faces. With just over four hundred spirit stones left from his escapade in the tomb—and the sect's formal reward—he had enough to gather the herbs he needed. Enough to step into Spirit Awakening. Barely.

He stopped before a modest herb stall nestled between two larger ones, eyes scanning the jars and pouches for soul-nourishing blends. His fingers hovered over a crimson-rooted leaf when a shift in the crowd made him glance up.

Three figures were approaching. All looked to be around twenty, maybe a little younger. Their presence parted the crowd subtly—not by force, but by aura. The one in white robes walked at the centre, a handsome youth with a calm, composed bearing that seemed to absorb attention without trying.

They stopped in front of Aaryan.

"You must be Brother Aaryan," the man in white said with a warm smile. "I'm Vayu."

He spoke like someone who already knew him—like the greeting was years late, not their first meeting.

"Brother Aaryan is quite the hard person to find. We've been looking for you for nearly two weeks."

Aaryan returned the nod, slightly cautious but not cold. "Brother Vayu."

Something about the man's presence was disarming. Not in a dangerous way—but in a way that made Aaryan feel... off-balance. Like someone being polite to him without wanting anything in return.

"I wasn't aware I was being searched for," Aaryan added, still curious. "May I ask why?"

Vayu chuckled lightly. "Oh, nothing serious. As a newly promoted core disciple, your arrival has stirred a bit of interest. Core disciples don't often change, and when they do, well… people get curious."

He stepped aside slightly, gesturing modestly. "A few of us were planning a quiet gathering tonight. Just food, company, introductions—nothing formal. I thought it'd be a good chance for you to meet the others, get a sense of who's who."

Aaryan blinked, caught off guard. The invitation seemed genuine. Not forced.

But it was also sudden.

"I appreciate the offer, Brother Vayu," he said slowly, "but I've just resumed my training. I've got some urgent goals to catch up on."

Before Vayu could respond, one of the men beside him took a sharp step forward, his eyes narrowing.

"Brother Vayu rarely comes in person," the first one said, his voice calm but firm. "It's not something he does lightly."

The other offered a faint, measured nod. "Most new core disciples are summoned. You're being given a kindness. It would be… unwise to overlook it."

Aaryan's expression darkened slightly. He looked between the two—noticing the way they stood a little too stiffly, their gazes just a little too watchful. Unlike Vayu, they weren't here out of friendliness. It looked more like a mission of sorts.

'Something's off. They want me to come, no matter what. And Vayu… he doesn't seem to realize it.'

The air shifted, the noise around them fading just enough to notice the silence between words. The two men flanking Vayu stood too close, watching Aaryan not like peers—but like guards waiting for orders. There was pressure here. Not just a friendly invite.

Vayu lifted a hand gently. "Enough," he said, tone still pleasant, but firm. "There's no need to pressure Brother Aaryan. It's not a command, just an invitation."

He turned back to Aaryan, still smiling. "But I do hope you'll come. I'd really like to hear more about how someone so young managed such remarkable things."

Aaryan looked at him for a long moment. He didn't sense malice. Not from him.

But the others…?

He shifted his gaze briefly to the sharp-eyed disciple, then gave a faint smirk.

"Well, with such earnest enthusiasm from your companions," Aaryan said dryly, "how could I refuse?"

Vayu laughed—a genuine, amused sound. "The rumours don't do you justice, Brother Aaryan. I'll take that as a yes. We'll be waiting this evening."

With that, Vayu offered a parting nod and turned, leading the other two away through the crowd.

Aaryan stood still for a moment, watching them disappear between stalls. Vayu seemed sincere. The others, too... perhaps. But something about the way they looked at him, how insistent they were—

It wasn't just a social visit.

Still, he'd go.

Not because he trusted them.

But because it was better to walk into a game with eyes open… than be dragged into one blind.

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