Chapter 8 - New Beginnings

De-Reece cautiously entered the village, his eyes scanning everything—the worn dirt paths, the simple but sturdy wooden houses, and the faint scent of livestock and burning wood. The people moved about their daily routines, but there was a subtle wariness in their eyes when they noticed him. Strangers, it seemed, were not a common sight.

He noted their clothing—roughspun tunics and cloaks, simple yet practical. Some villagers bore small weapons—short swords or daggers—tucked at their belts, while a few older men carried walking sticks that looked a touch too refined to be mere canes. Cultivators, perhaps, though at a minor level.

A figure stood out—a broad-shouldered man near the centre of the village square, his arms crossed as he observed De-Reece's approach. His aura was heavier than the others, a faint ripple of Qi hinting at his strength. A local warrior, maybe even a minor cultivator, tasked with maintaining order.

Conversations murmured around him—hushed mentions of trade routes to a distant city, complaints about the scarcity of certain herbs, and passing remarks about currency. Copper shards, silver marks—terms De-Reece tucked away for later. A few villagers spoke of caravans that came through once every few months, while others gossiped about nearby towns with more skilled cultivators guarding their gates. The village head's name surfaced more than once—a man named Eldrin, known for his firm yet fair leadership. This village was but a small thread in the tapestry of a much larger world, and De-Reece could feel the weight of unseen forces beyond these humble walls.

He kept his steps steady, his expression calm, blending observation with quiet confidence. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it step by step—just as he always had.

He kept his steps steady, his expression calm, blending observation with quiet confidence. As he passed through the village square, his gaze drifted to a small gathering near an inn—a modest, weathered building with a sign depicting a tankard and a bundle of herbs. The quiet hum of conversation tugged at his curiosity. Stepping inside, he found a handful of villagers nursing drinks and trading stories.

De-Reece moved to a quiet corner, listening intently. Snatches of conversation spoke of strength and cultivation—how a distant city held powerful sects, how lineage could determine one's future. Words like 'core formation' and 'spiritual roots' surfaced, unfamiliar yet laced with meaning.

The barkeep, a grizzled man with a scar running from temple to chin, exchanged hushed words with a traveler about a looming sect selection—a grand event held once every decade where the strongest youths from the region gathered to prove their worth.

De-Reece's jaw tightened. Strength, cultivation, lineage—this world valued them above all. The path ahead wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about rising above.

With the day nearing its end, De-Reece secured a modest room at the inn, paying a single bronze coin for the night. After a brief exchange with the innkeeper, he decided to pay for a full week—seven bronze coins clinking softly into the man's calloused hand. Through subtle questions and careful listening, De-Reece picked up the basic currency conversions: one silver mark was worth a hundred bronze coins, and a single gold piece held the weight of a thousand bronzes. It was a quiet relief to know the small pile of gold he'd taken from the Heavenly Demon's stash could last him a while, but it also put into perspective just how humble the villagers' wealth was—most only seemed to carry bronze and the occasional flash of silver.

The room itself was small and simple, a rough wooden bed and a single table, but it offered shelter and a place to gather his thoughts. Solar curled up at the foot of the bed, its violet eyes gleaming softly in the dim light.

Once the door was shut and the room fell into quiet stillness, De-Reece settled cross-legged on the floor, his mind already slipping into a meditative state. The energy from his spleen node rippled faintly within him, but it was unrefined—like a wild current that needed direction. He focused inward, guiding the energy through his meridians, feeling the pulse of his bloodline flicker ever so slightly, as though a sleeping beast stirred within him.

After steadying his cultivation, he pulled out one of the low-level body-tempering pills he had refined earlier. "Here," he said softly, holding it out to Solar. "I Bet you're Hungry."

Solar's violet gaze flicked from the pill to De-Reece before, with a quick dart of its tongue, it swallowed the pill whole. A sudden surge of faint, crackling energy rippled around the small creature. Its fur bristled for a moment, a low growl escaping its throat, before it finally settled, curling back into a ball. De-Reece noticed the subtle but sharp rise in Solar's Qi—like a candle flame flaring brighter before calming.

He exhaled slowly, his bond with Solar growing stronger with each shared moment of growth. Tomorrow, they would venture further—but tonight was for strengthening what lay within.

The next morning, De-Reece ventured to the village market—a humble collection of stalls selling everything from dried meats to simple herbs. Carefully, he traded a few of the more common herbs he'd gathered, keeping the Bloodshade Fruit well hidden. His sharp eye caught sight of an older man hunched over a small cauldron, muttering to himself—an alchemist, though clearly past his prime.

Curious, De-Reece struck up a conversation, subtly letting slip his own knowledge of alchemy. At first, the old man's gaze held a flicker of scepticism, but as De-Reece spoke of pill refinement, the delicate balance of spiritual herbs, and the intricate art of merging energies within a cauldron, that scepticism gave way to something resembling respect. The old alchemist's grizzled hand hovered over a small vial of crushed duskroot, and De-Reece calmly pointed out the faint shimmer within the powder—a sign of improper drying techniques, which could diminish its potency.

A brief silence followed before the old man gave a slow nod. "Not bad for a young one," he muttered, passing De-Reece a few extra supplies—parchment, a tiny measuring scale, and a vial of purified water.

As De-Reece accepted the items, he realized this was more than just a trade—it was the first thread of a connection in this new world. Knowledge, it seemed, could be just as valuable as currency. His gaze drifted past the market stalls until it settled on a modest forge at the edge of the square, smoke billowing softly from its chimney. Something about the rhythmic clang of metal on metal pulled at him—a distant echo of a life left behind.

Steeling himself, De-Reece approached the forge where a burly man, the foreman, wiped sweat from his brow and eyed him with mild curiosity. "Looking for something, boy?" the man asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

De-Reece's fingers twitched at his side, recalling the countless times he'd dreamt of trying his hand at smithing back on Earth—a fantasy never realized. "I was wondering if you'd let me watch… maybe even try," he replied evenly. "I've always been curious about the craft."

The foreman grunted, then chuckled. "Curious, eh? Curiosity's good, so long as it doesn't get you burned. Fine—show me you can hold a hammer first."

As De-Reece stepped forward, the forge's heat washing over him, he couldn't help but feel a strange satisfaction. This was more than idle curiosity—it was another step in adapting to this world, blending survival with the remnants of who he once was.

As De-Reece stepped forward, the forge's heat washing over him, he couldn't help but feel a strange satisfaction. The foreman handed him a hammer—its weight should have been solid, heavy—but in De-Reece's grasp, it felt almost weightless. His strengthened body, bolstered by the awakening of his bloodline and his cultivation, responded instinctively. With a steady breath, he raised the hammer and brought it down in a smooth arc, striking the glowing metal with a resonant clang. The foreman's bushy eyebrows lifted slightly—not quite surprise, but a flicker of interest.

The foreman stepped forward, taking the hammer back and demonstrating a series of firm, precise strikes—slow, methodical, like a rhythm meant to be memorized rather than mimicked. "It's not just strength," the man muttered. "It's about control. Every swing shapes the metal, every beat adds to its core."

De-Reece watched intently, his mind slipping into that same focused state he entered when practicing his Demon Sword style—an unyielding rhythm, like his body and spirit were aligning with something deeper. When the hammer was placed back in his hand, he didn't think—he just moved. Blow after blow, the strikes echoed through the forge with a steady cadence, the clanging of metal resonating in time with the thrum of his own Qi.

The foreman's smirk deepened. "Not bad, boy. Not bad at all. Come back tomorrow, if you're serious about this."

De-Reece hesitated only a moment before nodding. "I will."

The foreman paused, wiping his hands on a soot-stained rag. "What's your name, then?"

There was a flicker of silence as De-Reece considered his answer—his true name felt too weighted, too tied to a past that didn't quite fit this world. Finally, his lips parted, and the name came with quiet certainty.

"De," he said. "Cheon Ma De."

As the sun crested higher in the sky, casting long rays over the quiet village, De-Reece found himself wandering the narrow paths once more, this time with purpose. His steps were slow, his gaze sharp, absorbing every detail around him. Solar padded silently at his heels, its fur shimmering like liquid shadow.

The village had begun to stir to life. Merchants haggled over prices at their humble stalls, children darted between homes playing simple games, and farmers hauled baskets of freshly gathered produce. But it was the conversations—the murmurs that floated past his ears—that truly caught De-Reece's attention.

At the corner of a small alley, two middle-aged men leaned against a wall, their voices low yet urgent. "Heard the sect selection's coming again," one said, his tone a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "Another chance for the young ones to break free from this place."

"A chance?" The other scoffed. "It's a gamble, at best. Only two from this village have ever had the potential to be chosen—Joran and Kalia—and even they still have to prove themselves when the time comes."

De-Reece paused just long enough to catch the names tossed between them—Joran and Kalia. The only two youths spoken of with a certain weight in their names, as though their strength or talent set them apart. He filed the names away in his mind, along with the word 'sect.'

Further along, near the village well, a group of younger villagers—boys and girls barely older than teenagers—gathered in a loose circle. Their wooden training swords clashed clumsily against each other, their moves rough, unrefined, but driven by determination.

"Joran's definitely getting chosen this time," one boy muttered between strikes. "He's been training every day with the village head's guidance."

"And Kalia's spirit root is stronger than anyone else's," a girl added. "She might even get into the inner sect."

The words swirled in De-Reece's head, painting a rough picture of the world's hierarchy. Sects were more than just training grounds—they were a path to power, status, and freedom from the limits of small village life. To be chosen meant salvation for some… and a cruel reminder of their mediocrity for others.

He approached the training ground—a patch of hard-packed dirt, its edges marked by simple wooden posts—and stood at a distance. The sparring youths noticed him, their strikes faltering as their eyes flicked to the stranger with the dark-furred creature at his side.

A tall figure stepped forward from the crowd. Muscled and confident, Joran's sharp gaze measured De-Reece. "You new here?" he asked, his wooden sword resting casually on his shoulder.

De-Reece met his gaze, his voice calm. "Just passing through."

Kalia, a lean girl with a quiet intensity, studied Solar with a flicker of curiosity. "That beast… it's not from around here."

De-Reece said nothing, only offering the faintest of smiles. Let them wonder. Let them think.

Joran's gaze lingered on De-Reece for a long moment, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The gathered youths whispered among themselves, their curiosity and anticipation building like a low rumble of thunder.

Kalia stepped closer, her sharp eyes flicking between De-Reece and Solar. "Spiritual beasts like that aren't common in villages like ours," she said softly, the unspoken question hanging in the air. "They're usually bound to… well, those with stronger lineages."

De-Reece's expression remained neutral, but his mind spun. Stronger lineages? It seemed strength wasn't just about cultivation—it was tied to blood, family, and status. He offered a slight shrug. "Solar's just a companion," he replied.

Joran chuckled, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. "A companion that rare? You must be someone special." His wooden sword thumped against his shoulder again, a steady rhythm. "Why don't we see how special you are?"

It was less of an invitation and more of a test. The crowd hushed, waiting for De-Reece's response.

For a moment, De-Reece considered refusing—but something in Joran's stance, in the quiet weight of Kalia's gaze, made him reconsider. He needed to understand their strength, their techniques, and the true measure of what this world considered talent. This was a chance to observe, to learn.

"Fine," De-Reece said simply, stepping onto the hard-packed dirt of the training ground. Solar padded back a few steps, watching with unblinking violet eyes.

Joran tossed De-Reece a spare wooden sword. It was lighter than De-Reece expected, almost toy-like compared to the blade he had found back in the Heavenly Demon's cave. Still, it would do.

They circled each other slowly. Joran's confidence radiated off him like heat, and the way he shifted his weight spoke of practiced footwork—basic but solid. The crowd edged closer.

Joran struck first, a probing swing aimed at De-Reece's side. De-Reece sidestepped, his movement fluid, the wooden blade humming through empty air. Another strike, this time a thrust—De-Reece parried it with minimal effort, the impact jarring Joran's arm slightly.

"You're quick," Joran muttered, his smirk slipping.

De-Reece didn't respond. He let the rhythm of the fight take him, slipping into a pattern not unlike his Domineering Demon Swordplay, though he kept its ferocity in check. He mirrored Joran's strikes, testing him, feeling out his limits.

The spar gradually escalated. Joran's strikes became more aggressive, and then—faint but undeniable—a ripple of qi flickered through his next swing. It was clumsy, unrefined, but it sharpened the speed and force behind his attack. De-Reece's eyes narrowed, a spark of irritation flaring within him. Even in a simple spar, Joran was already drawing on his qi. De-Reece sidestepped, parrying the enhanced strike with a twist of his wrist, the impact resonating deeper than before. A bead of sweat rolled down Joran's temple, his jaw tightening as his frustration mounted.

Then De-Reece pressed forward—just slightly. A flick of his wrist sent Joran's blade wide, and with a subtle shift of his weight, he invoked the lowest degree of Shadow Phantom Steps. His form blurred, a whisper of movement, and in an instant, he was behind Joran. The crowd gasped, unable to follow his sudden repositioning.

Joran spun, his stance faltering.

Before the match could tip further, a sharp voice cut through the growing tension.

"Enough."

Kalia stepped between them, her gaze firm. "We're not here to break bones."

Joran's jaw tightened, but he relented, lowering his blade. De-Reece did the same, though his grip remained loose and ready.

The crowd slowly dispersed, murmuring about the stranger who had matched Joran's speed so effortlessly. Whispers rippled through them—some questioning if De-Reece might actually be stronger, others wondering just how much he was holding back.

Kalia studied De-Reece for a moment longer. "You fight like someone trained—not just some wanderer."

De-Reece simply smiled. "I pick things up quickly."

And with that, he turned, Solar falling into step beside him, the faint echo of the spar lingering in the quiet air.

Later that evening, De-Reece and Solar sat outside the small inn, a simple meal of roasted ware rabbit laid out before them. Solar, ever watchful, nibbled at a piece of meat, its violet eyes flickering with a faint glow.

The night air was cool, the distant murmur of villagers still audible from the nearby tavern. De-Reece's mind replayed the spar, dissecting Joran's use of qi. It was unpolished but still effective—a reminder that even here, in this humble village, cultivation ran deep.

"You keep surprising people," a voice said.

De-Reece didn't have to look up to know it was Kalia.

She stepped into view, her arms crossed, a curious tilt to her head as she studied Solar once more. "I've never seen a spiritual beast like that," she said softly.

De-Reece tensed slightly. "It's a massive world out there always more to see", he replied 

Kalia raised an eyebrow. "A good instinct." She settled onto the wooden step beside him, silent for a moment. "You didn't come from around here," she finally said. "And you didn't learn to fight like that in some backwater village."

De-Reece tore a piece of meat for Solar, choosing his words carefully. "I've travelled."

Kalia smiled faintly. "You don't trust easily. Smart."

Silence settled between them again, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

"Joran wasn't using his full strength either," Kalia finally added. "But you knew that already."

De-Reece glanced at her, his gaze steady. "I did."

Her smile deepened. "Maybe next time, we'll both stop holding back."

The night hung heavy, the air thick with the scent of charred meat and damp earth. The faint crackle of flames from the kitchen inside the inn played like a distant rhythm as De-Reece fed the last bit of roasted ware rabbit to Solar, who snapped it up with a satisfied chuff.

The quiet between them was easy, a rare moment of stillness.

"You didn't come here just to fight Joran," Kalia's voice broke the silence again, softer this time.

De-Reece didn't flinch, though his hand hovered over Solar's sleek black fur. "No," he admitted. "I'm looking for something."

Kalia tilted her head, the firelight catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her neck from the earlier spar. "What?"

He considered lying but thought better of it. "A way forward. Somewhere with answers."

A smile tugged at the corner of Kalia's mouth, though her eyes remained serious. "Then you're not the only one."

De-Reece's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"

She leaned back on her hands, staring up at the dark sky. "The sect selection."

De-Reece's mind whirled. He'd heard whispers of sects in the village already—places of power and cultivation—but this was the first time someone had mentioned a selection.

Kalia didn't seem to notice his silence. "It happens every few years. Representatives from one of the lower sects come through the nearby towns and villages, testing anyone who thinks they have the talent to become a disciple. Those deemed worthy are given a token — a chance to be tested again at the sect-wide selection, where all the sects gather and choose from the best."

De-Reece's expression didn't change, but his chest tightened. A path forward—a way into this world's deeper layers.

"Joran and I… we've been training for it since we were children," Kalia continued, her voice steady but distant. "For people like us, it's the only real chance to leave this place. To be more than farmers or hunters."

De-Reece's jaw shifted. "And if you don't get chosen?"

Her smile faded. "Then you stay."

The weight of her words pressed down heavier than the night air.

De-Reece studied her for a moment before speaking again. "And how many get chosen?"

Kalia laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. "Not many. Out of all the villages, maybe two or three every time."

Solar's ears flicked at the sound, but the creature remained curled by De-Reece's side.

The silence stretched on again, but this time, it was heavier—laden with unspoken hopes and fears.

Finally, Kalia rose, brushing the dust from her simple training robes. "You should come by the training grounds again," she said. "I think Joran would like another round."

De-Reece smirked faintly. "I'll think about it."

Kalia lingered for a moment longer, then gave a small nod and disappeared into the night, leaving De-Reece and Solar alone once more.

But now, De-Reece's thoughts weren't on the spar or even on Joran.

They were on the sect selection—and what it might mean for his path forward.

Morning came slowly, the pale light creeping through the wooden shutters of De-Reece's rented room. He rose without hesitation, his mind still circling Kalia's words from the night before. Sects, tokens, selections—it all seemed like a distant world, but one that now loomed closer.

And if there was a chance his brothers were out there—if they, too, had sought a way forward—then he had to follow that thread.

The next day, after a simple meal shared with Solar, De-Reece made his way back to the forge. The air was thick with the scent of burning coal and hot iron. The foreman grunted in acknowledgement as De-Reece approached, already setting out tools.

"Back again, De?" the foreman asked, a hint of a smirk on his scarred face.

De-Reece nodded. "I want to keep at it."

The foreman simply jerked his head toward the anvil, and De-Reece fell into step, the rhythm of hammer strikes coming as naturally as the flow of his sword forms. His movements were fluid yet forceful, each strike precise. By the time the morning sun hung high, the foreman's subtle nod of approval said more than words ever could.

With soot still clinging to his hands, De-Reece left the forge, Solar padding silently beside him. The afternoon belonged to training.

In a quiet clearing outside the village, De-Reece drilled relentlessly, his blade carving the air in sharp arcs. Solar mirrored his movements, the bond between them growing stronger with each synchronized shift of their bodies. It was unspoken—an understanding forged through battle and survival.

De-Reece pushed harder, slipping into the fluid steps of Shadow Phantom Steps, his form vanishing and reappearing as his footwork blurred with speed. Solar, too, moved with a predatory grace, its violet gaze locked onto De-Reece's every motion.

As the sun dipped lower, De-Reece finally sheathed his sword, his breath steady despite the hours of exertion.

He wasn't just training for himself anymore.

He was training for the path ahead—and for the brothers he had yet to find.

The night draped the village in a cloak of silence, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves against the window. A single candle flickered on the small wooden table in De-Reece's room, casting long, wavering shadows over the series of carefully selected herbs laid out before him. Their fragrances mingled in the still air—a potent blend of earthy bitterness and sharp sweetness.

Solar lay curled in a corner, its sleek black form barely stirring as De-Reece crushed, ground, and refined each ingredient. The Bloodshade Fruit remained hidden—tucked safely away—but the lesser herbs, those still valuable but not overtly rare, would serve his purpose today.

He worked with quiet intensity, his fingers moving with the same precision he wielded his sword. The small furnace flickered softly, and before long, a faint medicinal aroma filled the room but was trapped in the formations he laid. Hours slipped by unnoticed until, finally, two small bottles sat before him—each holding ten neatly formed pills. The first bottle contained low-level spiritual-lined body tempering pills, simple but effective for the common cultivator. The second held low-level spiritual-lined healing pills, their faint, intricate patterns spiralling across their surfaces a testament to De-Reece's growing alchemical skill.

He didn't want to draw too much attention, but he needed to start somewhere. His mind lingered on the thought of his brothers — if a sect selection was truly on the horizon, then making himself known as a skilled alchemist might be the first thread he could pull to weave his path forward. As he gathered the pills into his robes, a subtle warmth pulsed through him — a faint, almost overlooked sensation. It wasn't from the pills themselves but from the act of creating them. Qi. He realized, for the first time, that his alchemy wasn't just a craft—it was a form of cultivation in itself, each refined pill leaving an imprint of energy within him. It wasn't much, but it was there. His fingers briefly brushed the pendant around his neck, a reminder of the greater power still lurking beneath the surface.

Before the first light of dawn, De-Reece knelt beside Solar, holding out a low-level body tempering pill. The small creature sniffed it cautiously, then snapped it up in a single gulp. A faint shimmer pulsed beneath its sleek black fur, and De-Reece watched as Solar's muscles seemed to tense and ripple briefly before the creature let out a soft huff, curling back into its corner.

Satisfied, De-Reece settled himself onto the floor, crossing his legs as he slipped into a meditative state. The lingering qi from his pill-crafting the night before still swirled faintly within him. He guided the energy through his channels, slowly circulating it, his control over his cultivation becoming ever more precise. An hour passed in stillness before he finally opened his eyes.

Pulling a deep hood over his head and wrapping a dark scarf around the lower half of his face, De-Reece secured the bottles inside his robes. Solar gave him a questioning look, tilting its head, but De-Reece merely gave a faint smile and whispered, "Just a little test. Stay here."

The creature huffed softly but obeyed, curling back into a ball.

The village market bustled with activity, a lively mix of traders, farmers, and wandering cultivators bartering for goods. Stalls lined the main street—selling everything from weapons to herbs—and the air buzzed with the clamour of deals being struck.

De-Reece moved carefully, choosing a less crowded corner where wandering cultivators occasionally paused to check for hidden gems. He set the bottles down on the edge of a worn wooden stall, each pill carefully separated into its own small vial. Ten vials for the body tempering pills, and ten for the spiritual-lined healing pills — a subtle choice to make the sales feel more exclusive. Keeping his head low and voice steady, he spoke softly but clearly, "Pills for sale—body tempering and healing."

At first, there was little reaction. But as a young cultivator, his robes plain but marked by faint talismans, caught sight of the patterned pills, his eyes widened.

"These… these are spiritual pills? With patterning?"

De-Reece gave a slight nod, saying nothing more.

The commotion drew a few others—a middle-aged man with calloused hands who seemed to be a local alchemist, a wiry hunter with a bow strapped across his back, and a girl clutching a small pouch of bronze coins.

The alchemist leaned in, squinting at the pills. "Where did you get these?"

"Made them," De-Reece replied, his voice a shade lower.

The man's eyebrows shot up. "You? A hooded stranger claiming to be an alchemist? Prove it."

De-Reece's jaw tightened. Drawing a spare herb from his pocket—a lesser spirit root—he snapped it cleanly in half and placed one fragment in his palm. With a deft flick of his wrist, he activated a small array etched into a talisman he'd hidden beneath his sleeve. The fragment dissolved slowly, its essence pooling into a faint, glowing droplet in his hand.

The alchemist's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "That's… legitimate."

The hunter stepped forward. "How much for a body tempering pill?"

"Fifty bronze," De-Reece said calmly.

"Fifty? That's cheap for a pill of this quality," the girl murmured, clutching her pouch tighter.

"And the spiritual one?" the young cultivator asked.

"one silver," De-Reece replied.

The prices were reasonable—enough to turn a profit but not enough to cause a stir. He needed to build trust first, to plant seeds of curiosity without inviting danger.

Coins exchanged hands, and De-Reece sold two body tempering pills and one healing pill before packing up the rest. The alchemist watched him carefully the entire time but said nothing more.

As De-Reece melted back into the crowd, a ripple of hushed conversations followed in his wake. The village had never seen an unknown alchemist—certainly not one capable of crafting patterned pills.

And now, the name of a mysterious hooded seller had begun to spread. Before any could follow, De-Reece quietly slipped into a side alley, his movements a blur of practised steps — the faintest whisper of his Shadow Phantom Steps guiding him through the narrow paths, unseen and unnoticed.

Back in his room, De-Reece unwrapped the scarf and lowered his hood, setting the remaining pills back on the table. Solar padded over, sniffing at the bottles before looking up at De-Reece with an expectant gaze.

"It's a start," De-Reece muttered.

He leaned back against the wall, his mind already spinning ahead—about the coins he'd earned, the attention he'd drawn, and the silent steps he'd just taken toward both blending in… and standing out.

The path to the sect selection might have begun with a simple sale—but De-Reece knew better than anyone.The quietest ripples often grew into the deadliest storms.