The Skysunder Clan was carved from blackstone and pride. Its towers reached into the clouds, and its inner sanctums pulsed with spiritual energy. But beneath the grandeur, the stench of power and prejudice clung to its foundations.
Cael Dren led Derick through winding halls and across polished courtyards filled with demon cultivators—some sneering, some indifferent, none welcoming.
Derick's fox companion padded silently at his heels, eyes flicking from figure to figure.
At last, they reached a smaller courtyard set apart from the main estate, bordered by high stone walls draped in crimson silk. A meditation platform sat in the center, surrounded by training dummies and weapon racks.
"This will be your residence and training ground," Cael said, gesturing to a modest stone chamber at the far side. "It's not lavish, but it's yours."
Derick nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Master Cael."
Cael turned to face him fully, folding his arms. "Tomorrow, your training begins. Today, you rest. Eat. Breathe. Let the haze of survival clear from your mind. From here on, you cultivate not to escape death—but to command life."
The next morning, Derick rose before dawn.
Cael was already waiting in the courtyard, a heavy iron staff in one hand. His expression was calm, but his stance was that of a warrior ready for war.
"Begin with the Iron Root Form," Cael instructed. "A body refinement stance passed to me by a forgotten sect of human cultivators."
Derick obeyed.
The form was deceptively simple—slow movements, deep breathing, postures that strained muscles to their limit. Within an hour, Derick's arms trembled. His knees ached. Sweat soaked through his robes.
"Again," Cael said, unmoved.
And Derick did it again.
And again.
Until his body screamed and his vision blurred.
Only then did Cael nod. "You've got the spine. Now we forge it into steel."
By noon, Derick had collapsed in the shade. The fox lay beside him, tail flicking in quiet amusement.
That was when they came.
Three demon youths, clad in the blood-silk robes of Skysunder's inner families, strolled into the courtyard. Their horns were polished. Their expressions smug. One had a sword slung lazily across his shoulder. Another held a fan crafted from Nightshade Beast feathers.
"Cael Dren," one of them drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "Still playing nursemaid to stray humans?"
Derick, still gasping for breath, sat up.
The lead youth smirked. "Or is he your pet project now? What's next—will you adopt more gutter-bloods and build a circus?"
Cael didn't turn to face them. "Leave."
"Or what? You'll send your mutt after us?" the second laughed, pointing to Derick.
The third youth's gaze locked on the fox. "Curious companion. A shame it's wasted on a slave-born wretch."
Derick stood.
Cael's voice sliced through the air like a blade.
"Enough."
The demon youths fell silent.
Cael turned slowly, eyes hard. "You mock me for raising one who crawled out of chains. But I tell you this: one year from now, during the Skysunder tournament, he will face you all."
The three looked at each other. Then burst into laughter.
Cael did not smile.
"You laugh today," he said coldly. "Let's see who laughs when blood stains the arena stones."
With a final glare, the demon youths withdrew, their amusement thinly veiled over uncertainty.
Derick turned to Cael. "Master… why risk this for me?"
Cael's eyes lingered on the gate where the youths had vanished.
"I've walked this path," he said quietly. "I was born free—but not welcome. To them, a human's strength is a threat. They pretend it's curiosity. They pretend it's amusement. But they know what happens when humans rise."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"When I was your age, I trained in shadows. I wasn't even allowed in the outer halls. But I survived. And when I entered the tournament, I bled for every inch of ground. I lost an eye. A friend. But I stood. And they had to acknowledge me."
Derick listened, heart pounding.
Cael looked him over, nodding. "You're not just a boy with potential, Derick. You're a flame in dry forest. If you burn, others will ignite. So I'll feed that fire until it scorches the heavens."
From that day, Derick's training became relentless.
Cael taught him the Iron Root Form, followed by the Nine-Step Breathing Cycle, a technique that helped refine internal Qi, and one that was rarely taught to humans. In the afternoons, he trained his senses—learning to hear the sound of Qi in motion, to predict a beast's movement by the weight of its footfall.
At night, he practiced with the fox by moonlight. The fox—still unnamed—watched him silently, occasionally demonstrating movements faster than any normal creature. It had begun showing signs of its own intelligence, mimicking his forms, warning him when predators approached.
Derick had never known companionship like it.
Days bled into weeks. Each time Cael looked at him, he saw more than just a slave-born youth—he saw a blade being sharpened.
In Quiet Shadows
One night, after training, Derick sat by the pond near his quarters. The moon shimmered across the water. The fox lay beside him, tail curled around its paws.
He looked up at the stars.
"Master Shen… I'll make it. I'll get them back. I swear it."
Behind him, Cael watched silently from the balcony above.
He did not interrupt.
Because he knew that the fire had caught.
And the world would never be the same again.