The rain never stopped in this part of the cliffs.
It fell in sheets, whispering over stone and shadow, washing blood from the old carvings that marked the forgotten ridge. Kael sat there, unmoving, hood drawn low, body wrapped in stillness. But inside?
Storm.
Not the kind that raged in the sky.
The kind that formed at the center of a man.
Quiet. Inevitable.
He had run from battle before. But never from himself.
His body still ached from the escape — ribs cracked, one arm slower than it should've been. The bruises would fade. The wounds would close. But something else remained.
Something worse.
Kael closed his eyes and drew in a breath.
He pushed past the noise of the world — the thunder, the wind, the pain — and reached inward.
Through breath.
Through bone.
Through spirit.
He followed the currents of his cultivation, tracing the lines he had reforged after his return. They flowed smooth now. Restored. His power wasn't what it used to be — but it was real again.
And yet…
There it was. Foreign. Faint. Lurking.
He couldn't place it before, when he was weak. It was buried deep — not in his flesh, not in his blood, but somewhere darker. Beneath the core. Beyond the reach of healing or poison.
It stirred when he focused on it.
Like it knew he was watching.
No… not watching.
It was watching him first.
Kael's eyes snapped open.
He staggered to his feet, the edges of his vision swimming. Rain slicked his cloak, his hair, his boots, but he didn't care.
He'd felt this thing before.
Every time the Seer was one step ahead.
Every time Kael tried to vanish — and they found him.
It wasn't coincidence.
I'm being tracked… from inside.
He leaned against the rock wall, breathing hard, memories bleeding through his mind in fragments. His regression. The night his clan fell. The flame that devoured everything.
And then… something else.
A ritual.
A chant spoken in a dead tongue.
A burning brand. A flash of pain.
Hands gripping his face.
Eyes — flame-lit and inhuman — staring into his soul.
He hadn't remembered that part before.
Hadn't wanted to.
But it was there now.
The Seer hadn't just tried to erase him.
He had left something behind.
Kael moved like a shadow through the low ridgelands until the rocky peaks gave way to the outer perimeter of the Earth Sect's trade enclave.
By day, it was a festival — a chaotic blend of hawkers, spiritual cooks, and elemental peddlers bartering soul-gems and relics. But by night?
It became something else.
A neutral ground — a melting pot of spies, thieves, wandering cultivators, and broken sectless survivors. No banners. No rules. Just currency, food, and whispers.
Perfect for hiding.
Perfect for listening.
Kael stepped through the crowds slowly, hood up, cloak dragging mud. He avoided the light, let the shadows cling to him like memory.
Each face he passed could be watching him.
Each merchant's cry could be a signal.
And still… he pressed on.
He stopped at a food stall — flatbread soaked in pungent roots and fried beast marrow. He barely tasted it. But while chewing, he listened.
"…Flame Seer's agents crossed into the Blackroot pass again…"
"…Earth Sect pretending they don't know, but they do…"
"…Whole war coming again, I swear it…"
"…someone survived from the Obsidian Clan, did you hear? Thought they were all burned…"
Kael froze.
He turned slightly, letting his ears do the work.
Two merchants. One young. One scarred. Whispering fast over bowls of steaming rice.
"Saw him myself. Said he moved like he was born in the dark. Cut two elites down like they were drunk farmers."
"No way. Those elites don't die easy."
"Didn't kill one of them. Let him live. Sent a message."
Kael's fingers curled beneath the edge of the table.
So word was spreading.
Too fast.
Someone was guiding it. Feeding it. Either to draw him out… or to trap him.
And that thing inside him — it pulsed again.
Worse this time. Like it knew he'd gotten closer to something.
Like it was afraid.
Or angry.
He dropped the bread and stood, weaving into the darker alleyways between the tents.
And then he felt it.
A flicker in the shadows.
Not seen.
Sensed.
He stopped.
Tilted his head.
No sound. No breath.
But the space behind him was too still.
His blade was halfway out before he moved.
A hand shot from the dark — fast — but Kael turned with it, twisting, slamming his attacker into the wooden wall.
Only…
It wasn't an assassin.
It was a boy.
A street runner.
Maybe twelve. Covered in soot and bruises.
But his eyes—
His eyes were pitch black.
And when he spoke, his voice wasn't his own.
"It grows," the boy rasped. "The root stirs. The Seer knows. He always knew."
Kael backed away.
"What are you—?"
The boy's head jerked once, violently, as if something snapped inside him.
Then he dropped.
Unconscious. Breathing. But hollow.
Kael knelt, checked the pulse. Alive.
But wrong.
He looked around. The alley was still empty. No trace of the presence. No lingering signature of flame or spirit.
Just… emptiness.
He turned, heart pounding, and started to move again—only to stop.
A symbol had been scratched into the stone wall beside him.
Crude. Crooked. Marked in ash.
But he recognized it.
It was the same mark Orrin had carved into the cave wall.
The one that meant: "Watcher Within."
Kael stepped back, breath fogging the air.
He clutched his cloak tighter.
He wasn't just being followed.
He was being used.
And whatever was inside him…
Was waking up.