The Wetlands grove sprawled beneath a shroud of mist, its gnarled trees twisting upward like the skeletal fingers of some ancient, forgotten beast. The air hung heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of scorched earth and the metallic bite of spilled blood—a lingering echo of Arrand's unrestrained fury. The oppressive heat pressed against his skin, a damp weight that clung to his silks, the humidity amplifying the chaos of his thoughts. The Armored Mage's confession still seared his mind: "The Bishops saw you enter the Slave Market. It is forbidden." The words had landed like a spear thrust through his chest, piercing the fragile shroud of secrecy he'd draped over his dealings in Red Hawk Valley Pavilion's shadowed auctions. Nameth's underbelly—its labyrinthine stalls, the susurrus of whispered bids, the glint of spirit stones changing hands—had been his proving ground, a calculated risk to bolster the Gu family's resources. Now, the Bishops of Itmanna, those sanctimonious arbiters perched in their distant towers, had twisted his gambit into a noose tightening around his neck.
Arrand's fingers clenched around the bone knife, its surface cool against his palm, as the memories flooded back while he paced. "Those orange eyes—who was it that actually approached the Bishops?" he'd snarled and spat, "Trash," realizing that someone had conspired against him.
The grove trembled under his wrath, Qi unleashing a blaze of unchecked power. "Think you can play me for a fool?" he roared, his voice reverberating through the trees, the sheer devastation of his rage leaving no room for doubt. The flames surged outward, devouring the tangled undergrowth, the air shimmering as the oppressive humidity recoiled from the fire's intensity. Small creatures—lizards, insects, the occasional bird—fled in frantic bursts, their silhouettes darting through the haze into the open marsh. Arrand's mind churned, a storm of suspicion and fury. Someone had dared to betray a Gu, a scion of the Fuchsia Sect, to Itmanna's self-righteous zealots. The thought gnawed at him, a splinter lodged deep in his pride, unyielding and sharp.
As he turned to leave, the mist thickened, cloaking his path in a haze of uncertainty. His boots sank into the mire, each step a laborious slog through the Wetlands' grasping muck. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant croak of swamp beasts and the faint rustle of leaves. Then, a shadow moved—a flicker of motion too deliberate to be the wind. Arrand froze, his qi flaring as a massive serpent, its scales glistening with iridescent hues, slithered from the underbrush. The creature's eyes glowed with predatory intent, its tongue flicking as it tasted the air. Arrand's grin returned, sharp and feral. "You'll do," he muttered, raising his hand. A whip of flame lashed out, but the serpent dodged, its body coiling with unnatural speed. Arrand's eyes narrowed—he'd underestimated its agility. With a grunt, he summoned Shadow Bind, sending tendrils of darkness to ensnare the beast. It thrashed, but the shadows held, tightening until its movements stilled. He stepped closer, the bone knife glinting as he delivered a swift, decisive strike. The serpent's body slumped, lifeless. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the blade came away clean, no need for wiping. He reached down, retrieving a small, pitiful core from the serpent's remains—a meager prize, but one he pocketed nonetheless. The battle had been a welcome distraction, his rage momentarily sated by the thrill of the kill.
He stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving, the bone knife still clutched in his hand. The weapon's weight grounded him, its latent power a faint pulse against his skin, a reminder of the stakes he played for. The Wetlands stretched around him, an expanse of muted greens and grays, the mist weaving through the trees like a living thing, coiling and shifting in the aftermath of his outburst. He traced a finger along the knife's edge, his thoughts drifting to the day he'd claimed it from his father's hand—a blood-soaked skirmish in Nameth's borderlands, a rival cultivator's final gasp as the blade drank his qi dry. Its power hummed beneath his touch, a subtle vibration that synced with his own energy, amplifying the flow of qi through his meridians. "Your uncle means to kill you." Siwei's warning echoed, a dagger lodged in his thoughts, its edge honed by the Patriarch's grim certainty. Gu Qingshan's greed was a venom seeping through the Gu family's veins, a betrayal Arrand hadn't foreseen until it stared him in the face. He clenched his fists, the last spirit stone disintegrating beneath his will, its dust scattering across the floor like fallen snow. With a deep breath, he began to circulate his qi, the energy swirling within him, a storm of shadow and flame. He visualized his meridians, the pathways glowing with power, each cycle refining his strength, preparing him for the battles ahead. The air crackled faintly, the runes on the walls responding to his cultivation, their light pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Hours passed as he navigated the Wetlands' twisting paths, the sect's spires finally piercing the horizon. His teeth ground together, a silent snarl of impatience and rage bubbling beneath his calm exterior. That bastard Siwei thinks he can corner me like some witless pup. And Father—damn him to the Void—his shadow still choking me even in death.
By the time he reached the sect's dining hall, the anger had hardened into a cold, sharp edge. Siwei, Patriarch of the Fuchsia Sect, sat at the head of the low table, his presence as unyielding as the lacquered wood beneath their meal. The air carried the faint scent of jasmine tea and braised lotus root, but it did little to soften the weight of Siwei's gaze.
Siwei leaned back, his expression unreadable, and offered a rare anecdote. "Your father once faced a similar betrayal," he said, his voice softening, a thread of nostalgia woven into the words. "A rival clan turned his own lieutenants against him. He burned their fields to ash and left their banners as a warning."
Arrand's grin faltered, a flicker of unease stirring as he wondered if the story was a lesson—or a threat. Betrayal? Oh, I know it well, Patriarch. I felt it when Father's blood stained my hands, when his eyes begged for mercy he didn't deserve. He countered with a laugh, too bright to be genuine. "Sounds like Father—always dramatic. I prefer subtlety, Patriarch."
Siwei's smile was thin, a crescent moon in the dim light, and Arrand felt the weight of his scrutiny settle deeper. "Itmanna's Bishops envy our shine, Patriarch—let them choke on their dust," Arrand said, waving a hand as if brushing off the matter.
Siwei's eyes narrowed slightly. "Envy doesn't explain a mage hunting you, Arrand. What else shines in your shadow?"
Arrand shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Nothing but a few trinkets from the Slave Market. Hardly worth their attention."
Siwei picked up a piece of braised lotus root with his chopsticks, examining it briefly before placing it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving Arrand's face. "Trinkets? Or tools for your own ambitions? The Chimeric Crow doesn't hunt for mere baubles."
"Perhaps they hunt for sport, or for someone else's coin," Arrand replied, his tone light but his jaw tight. Let him suspect Ikle or some other fool. The sect's own spies are a sieve—Father taught me that much before I gutted him. "The sect has many enemies, after all."
"And many allies who might turn, given the right incentive. Your father's enemies, for instance."
Arrand's grip on his teacup tightened, the porcelain creaking faintly. "My father's enemies are dead, Patriarch. I made sure of that." With my own hands, the Void bone knife carving out his treachery. And still, I'm tethered to his failures.
Siwei raised an eyebrow. "Did you? Or did you merely prune the branches while the roots remain?"
Arrand forced a smile, taking a sip of his tea to mask the flare of anger in his chest. The liquid was hot, but it did little to warm the chill that had settled in his bones. "I assure you, Patriarch, the roots are as dead as the branches. I'd stake my life on it."
Siwei set down his chopsticks with a deliberate clink. "For your sake, I hope you're right. But remember, Arrand, in the game of sects, one must always watch for the shadows that move when the light is brightest."
A faint snap echoed through the room as Qingshan, seated silently to Siwei's left, flicked his fingers. A tiny, skeletal bird materialized beside him, its brittle wings twitching before it darted forward and shattered Arrand's carefully woven mid-tier ward with a shrill crack. Dust drifted to the table, a mocking veil over the untouched rice.
Qingshan smirked, his voice a low drawl. "Impressive effort, Arrand. Weeks of work, undone in a breath. Perhaps you've much to learn about strength, too."
Arrand's smile tightened, his teeth gnashing behind it. Stronger, yes, but I'll bury them all yet—Father's ghost included. "A fine trick, Qingshan. I'll remember it."
The conversation lapsed into a tense silence, the only sounds the clinking of dishes and the distant hum of the sect's activities. Arrand knew Siwei's words—and Qingshan's display—were a test, probing for any sign of weakness or deception. He met Siwei's gaze, his own eyes gleaming with a defiance he hoped the Patriarch would mistake for loyalty.