Chapter 5

The desert stretched endlessly before Ashen, a wasteland of dust and cracked stone. The air was dry, the sun relentless, but he barely noticed. His mind was focused on one thing.

Hunting.

His hands gripped his blade as he moved low through the rocks, his steps silent. He had been tracking his prey for nearly an hour—a wild shadowhound, a beast that prowled the wastelands in search of weaker creatures.

This time, Ashen was not the weak one.

The beast stopped, sniffing the air.

Ashen lunged.

His sword sliced through the air—but the shadowhound was fast. It twisted away, snarling, its black fur bristling as it countered.

Ashen barely had time to react before pain exploded in his arm.

The beast's claws tore into his flesh. Deep. Blood dripped onto the cracked ground.

But Ashen did not scream.

He gritted his teeth, his body refusing to fall. The old him would have collapsed. The old him would have been too slow.

But he had changed.

He shifted his grip. The beast lunged again, fangs flashing—and this time, Ashen moved first.

His sword pierced the creature's throat.

A sickening crunch.

The beast convulsed, its eyes wide with shock, before collapsing at his feet.

Blood pooled around his boots, hot against the cold ground. Ashen took slow, steady breaths, feeling the ache in his wounded arm.

But he had won.

Again.

His body was still weak. His strength was still nothing compared to Zephyr's.

But he was getting stronger.

That fire inside him, the one that refused to die, was growing.

The Art of Pain

Ashen knelt beside the corpse, inspecting the wound on his arm. The gash was deep—if he left it untreated, it would fester.

The Forsaken had always told him:

"A wound ignored is a wound that kills."

He reached into his cloak, pulling out a torn piece of cloth. He had no medicine, no proper bandages. Just dust, blood, and the will to live.

He pressed the cloth to his arm.

Pain flared like fire beneath his skin. His muscles locked, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

But pain was nothing new.

Pain was his teacher now.

With a steady hand, he tied the cloth tightly, stopping the bleeding.

He exhaled slowly, his vision clearing.

This was survival.

The Next Step: Strength Beyond Flesh

Killing the shadowhound proved something.

He was improving.

His speed, his instincts—they were sharper than before. But something still bothered him.

He had no power.

No Celestial Sigil. No divine mark of strength. Nothing that set him apart from the countless warriors who could wield fire, lightning, or steel with a mere thought.

He had been born with nothing.

But what if he could create something?

He looked down at his sword, still slick with blood. The blade was sharp, but not enough. If he wanted to kill Zephyr, he needed more than just a weapon.

He needed a way to surpass the limits of a normal human.

Something no one else had.

But where would he find it?

A Fateful Encounter

Night fell over the wastelands.

Ashen had found a temporary shelter beneath a broken rock formation, the wind howling like distant screams through the canyon. He was sharpening his blade when he sensed something.

A presence.

Not an animal. Not a beast.

Something human.

His grip tightened on his sword as he rose to his feet. His breath slowed. His heartbeat steady.

And then, from the darkness, a voice.

"You are not supposed to be alive."

Ashen's eyes narrowed. The figure stepped into the dim moonlight, their form wrapped in a tattered cloak. A man, older, eyes sharp as steel.

A warrior.

"Who are you?" Ashen asked, voice low.

The stranger smiled. "A question better asked of yourself." He took a slow step forward. "A child born without fate. A ghost that should have died in the womb. And yet, you are here."

Ashen's blood turned cold.

This man knew.

He knew what Ashen was.

"How?" Ashen whispered.

The stranger chuckled. "Because I have seen those like you before."

He reached into his cloak and pulled out something small, something ancient.

A book.

Its cover was black, etched with symbols Ashen did not recognize.

"Strength is not always given," the man said, tossing the book toward him. "Sometimes, it is taken."

Ashen caught it, his fingers running over the strange markings. His mind screamed warnings, but his heart pounded with something else.

Anticipation.

The stranger turned to leave.

"Wait," Ashen called. "What's in this book?"

The man paused.

And then, with a smirk, he said:

"The first step toward becoming something greater than human."

And then he was gone.

Ashen looked down at the book, his hands trembling slightly.

This was it.

This was what he had been waiting for.

He opened it.

And the words burned themselves into his mind.

The Path of the Eclipse.

The First Words of Power

As Ashen read, the world around him seemed to darken.

The pages spoke of a power long forgotten. Not Celestial Sigils, not divine blessings—but something older.

Something born from suffering.

"The strongest warriors are not those chosen by the gods."

"They are those who claw their way beyond the heavens through pain and fury."

"Strength is not granted."

"It is stolen."

The words burned into his mind, filling the emptiness inside him with something new.

A path.

A way forward.

A power meant for someone with nothing.

Ashen closed the book, his breath steady.

For the first time since Zephyr abandoned him, he did not feel lost.

He had direction.

And nothing would stop him now.