The sun rose over the sprawling grounds of the Crimson Veil War Sect, casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. In the outer disciple district, the air was thick with the sounds of grueling training—blades clashing, bodies slamming against dirt, and the occasional cry of frustration. This was a place where the weak fought desperately to survive, and the strong climbed toward glory.
Kael Voidstrider was not among the strong. Not anymore.
---
Inside a decrepit hut at the farthest edge of the sect, Ravok stood before a cracked mirror, his gaze fixed on the unfamiliar face that stared back. The boy's features were gaunt, his skin pale from malnourishment, but his sharp eyes told another story. They were haunted, filled with the shadows of someone who had once tasted greatness but now walked among the dirt.
"This body…" Ravok muttered, flexing his frail fingers, "is pathetic."
He closed his eyes, focusing inward. What he found only confirmed his frustration. At the center of this body's being lay a knot of ancient energy, a curse that twisted around Kael's dantian like a chain of barbed wire. It pulsed with a faint, mocking glow, sealing away the potential that should have made Kael a legend.
"It's divine," Ravok whispered, his voice low and venomous. He recognized the oppressive energy wrapped around the core. Its signature was all too familiar—it carried the essence of the gods who had betrayed him. Perhaps even Veynor himself.
He let out a slow breath, steadying his rising fury. "You think this curse is my cage," he murmured, his crimson eyes narrowing. "But chains can be broken. And when I rise again, the gods will wish they had destroyed me completely."
For now, though, he needed patience. Power would not come overnight, and this body was far too weak to act on his ambition. Ravok turned away from the mirror, his mind already working through his next move.
---
The Sect's Buzzing Grounds
Stepping outside, Ravok was greeted by the sight of the outer disciple district—a chaotic sprawl of crude huts and packed dirt training fields. Disciples of varying skill and rank bustled about, some sparring, others sharpening weapons or tending to injuries. The air smelled of sweat and dirt, punctuated by the occasional metallic tang of blood.
As Ravok walked through the grounds, he noticed the whispers begin.
"Look who decided to crawl out of his hole."
"Kael Voidstrider… the prodigy who couldn't even protect his own dantian."
"Why doesn't he just leave the sect? He's embarrassing himself."
The words carried a sharp edge, but Ravok's face remained expressionless. These voices were nothing compared to the jeering disciples and arrogant gods he had once endured in his former life. Their mockery was a distraction, nothing more.
Still, he filed the names and faces of the loudest offenders in his mind. When the time came, they would learn their place.
---
The Provocation
As Ravok approached the main training grounds, a booming voice interrupted his thoughts. "Well, well, look who's dragging their sorry carcass out in public."
Ravok turned to see Marek, a hulking figure with a cruel smirk. The man's bare chest was covered in scars, each one a testament to battles won—and lives ruined. Behind him stood a group of sycophants, their laughter echoing like crows.
"Kael Voidstrider," Marek sneered, crossing his arms. "What's the matter? Did your curse weigh you down so much you forgot how to fight?"
The group laughed, and a crowd began to gather. Disciples were always hungry for a spectacle, and Marek's taunts promised one.
Ravok's eyes narrowed, but he kept his expression calm. Marek was strong, easily stronger than this body could handle in a direct confrontation. But Ravok wasn't interested in brute strength. He'd learned long ago that brains outweighed brawn in the long run.
"You're in my way," Ravok said flatly, his tone so casual it silenced the onlookers for a moment.
Marek blinked, then burst out laughing. "In your way? What are you going to do about it, cripple?"
Ravok tilted his head, his crimson eyes locking onto Marek's. "Move."
---
The First Move
Marek's smirk faltered for a split second before twisting into a scowl. "You've got a sharp tongue for someone who can't back it up."
Before Marek could finish his sentence, Ravok's hand flicked forward, sending a handful of dirt flying into the larger man's face. The attack was sudden and humiliating, and Marek stumbled back, cursing and rubbing his eyes.
The crowd erupted in laughter—not at Ravok, but at Marek's misfortune. Marek's growl of frustration was audible even above the jeers. His energy flared as he stepped forward, his fists glowing with raw power.
"You're dead!" Marek roared, raising his fist.
"Enough!" barked a stern voice from across the training field.
The crowd parted as an instructor strode forward, his presence silencing the commotion. He was a middle-aged man with sharp features and an air of authority that demanded respect.
"This is not the place for street brawls," the instructor said, his gaze shifting between Ravok and Marek. "If you have a grievance, settle it in the ring. Prove your worth through combat."
His eyes landed on Ravok, scrutinizing him. "Kael, this is your chance to show me if you still belong in this sect. Take it, or leave."
Ravok's lips curled into the faintest of smiles. Exactly as planned.
---
The Sparring Match
The sparring ring was a simple dirt circle surrounded by white stones, but to Ravok, it was a stage. Marek stepped into the ring, his towering form radiating confidence, while Ravok followed, his frail body almost laughable in comparison.
"Ready to get crushed, cripple?" Marek taunted, cracking his knuckles.
Ravok ignored the jab, his mind focused entirely on the terrain. The ring was uneven, with small stones and patches of loose dirt scattered throughout. To Marek, it was insignificant. To Ravok, it was opportunity.
The instructor raised his hand. "Begin!"
Marek charged immediately, his fist glowing with energy as he aimed a devastating punch at Ravok's chest. The crowd gasped, already anticipating Kael's defeat.
But Ravok moved.
He sidestepped at the last moment, using the momentum of Marek's charge to push him toward a loose patch of dirt. Marek stumbled slightly, and Ravok capitalized by kicking a stone into his knee. The move wasn't powerful, but it was precise.
Marek roared in frustration, swinging wildly. Ravok danced around him, using the uneven terrain to keep the larger man off balance. Each strike Marek threw only served to exhaust him further.
Finally, Marek overextended, his balance faltering. Ravok swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. Before Marek could recover, Ravok planted his foot on the man's chest, pinning him in place.
---
A Calculated Victory
The crowd fell silent. Ravok's calm voice broke through the tension. "Strength without control is nothing but recklessness."
Marek glared up at him, his humiliation evident, but he couldn't muster a response. The instructor stepped forward, nodding slightly. "Victory goes to Kael."
As the crowd dispersed, Ravok turned and walked away, his mind already calculating his next move. This body was weak, but his mind was sharp. The sect would soon learn to fear him—not for his strength, but for his cunning.
This was only the beginning.