Chapter 13 - Trial Of Control

The sun hangs heavy in the sky, casting long, wavering shadows across the training grounds. Heat presses down like a smothering hand, the cracked dirt beneath every step splitting further in silent protest. The weight of the second trial settles over the contenders, a quiet, invisible force more suffocating than the midday sun.

The Overseer's voice slices through the murmurs, calm yet unyielding. "This trial is not about who can strike the hardest," he declares, his tone sharp as tempered steel. "It is about control. Strength without balance is a blade without a hilt—wild, dangerous, and ultimately self-destructive."

A hush falls over the gathered crowd, a mix of villagers and robed observers drawn by the weight of the trials. Among them, Elder Faen watches impassively, his gaze flickering over the contenders with quiet scrutiny.

The Overseer raises a hand, and the air itself seems to still.

"Pair off."

Names are called in clipped succession, the finality of each match sealing fates for the next few minutes. Joran stands rigid as his opponent is announced—a wiry youth named Pell, known for his speed but little else. Strength is what earns respect. Strength is what earns a place in the sect. The words echo in Joran's mind, anchoring him in simmering determination.

Kalia's match is set against a solid-built girl from a neighboring village, her opponent's stance betraying an overreliance on brute force. A flaw easily exploited. Yet Kalia's true focus isn't on the girl before her—it's on the one who remains still, silent, watching at the edge of the circle.

De.

His opponent—a lean boy whose scowl deepens with barely concealed disdain—stands across from him, fists curling in anticipation.

A single word from the Overseer shatters the tension.

"Begin."

The circle erupts.

Joran lunges, a blur of muscle and unchecked aggression. His qi surges through his hands, raw and volatile, flaring too brightly, too erratically. Pell barely ducks in time, escaping a strike that would have shattered bone.

"Control," the Overseer warns, his voice a lash of tempered iron.

Kalia moves like water, her opponent's brute force rendered meaningless against a tide that flows effortlessly around it. A step, a pivot, a shift in weight—her adversary stumbles forward, thrown by the very momentum she sought to use. No wasted movement. No unnecessary force. Just control.

And then, there is De.

He does not move. Not at first.

His opponent circles, throwing probing strikes, feints laced with hesitant bursts of qi. A test. A demand for response.

De simply watches.

A flick of movement, a subtle shift in balance. His opponent lunges—a palm strike aimed at the shoulder, a technique meant to stagger. De pivots, the motion smooth, effortless. One fluid motion deflects the blow, another redirects momentum. In a breath, the boy is on the ground.

The crowd blinks.

No excess power. No wasted qi. Just perfect, deliberate control.

The Overseer's gaze lingers longer this time. Each movement has been precise, measured. A fighter trained not in brute force but in restraint. This is no accident. This is discipline. A scion of a hidden lineage, perhaps? A noble sent to train beyond prying eyes? If so, why conceal it? The question lingers, unspoken.

Joran's fight drags on, Pell's agility keeping him just beyond the reach of heavy-handed strikes. Every missed blow, every moment wasted chasing a moving target only deepens the frustration coiling in his gut. His hand node flares, heat pulsing beneath his skin. Too much qi, too fast—but he doesn't care. Let them see his power. Let them fear it.

But it is not Joran the others watch.

It is De.

Kalia studies him, eyes unreadable. The way he moves—it doesn't belong to a simple village contender. Not someone clawing for a place in the sect. He fights like someone accustomed to holding back. To hiding.

Solar remains in the shade, golden eyes glinting in silent recognition. A secret shared in a glance, a quiet understanding beyond words.

The second trial comes to an end, but the unspoken battles have only just begun.

Long shadows stretch over the training grounds as the dust settles, the weight of the trial still clinging to the air. The crowd has thinned, leaving only contenders and the lingering presence of a few robed figures—silent observers of potential.

Kalia stands near the edge of the circle, fingers brushing the hilt of a practice sword at her waist. Her muscles still hum from exertion, but her mind is elsewhere, replaying every movement, every shift, every choice De made.

Too smooth. Too controlled.

She has sparred with Joran enough to know what raw strength looks like—what the erratic, untamed bursts of qi feel like. But De? He does not fight like someone desperate to prove himself. He fights like someone accustomed to restraint. To concealment.

Her gaze finds him leaning against a weathered post, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Solar lies coiled beside him, golden eyes half-lidded but alert. That creature is no ordinary beast. Kalia has seen the way it moves, the way it watches—not with the blind loyalty of a tamed animal, but with understanding.

Who are you really, De?

Joran, a few paces away, scowls. His breathing is steady now, but the ache in his hand throbs in time with his frustration. The match had lasted longer than it should have, his movements too wild, his qi too volatile. But De? He dispatched his opponent without so much as breaking a sweat.

He doesn't even care. Joran wipes sweat from his brow, watching De with a simmering intensity. Does he think this is a game? Strength is something earned through pain, through effort, through struggle. Yet De moves like someone who never had to fight for it. Like someone who doesn't even need to try.

Joran's fingers curl into fists.

What is he hiding?

The Overseer's silence is the most dangerous of all. His expression remains unreadable, his presence steady—but his mind is sharp, honed to a singular thought.

That was no accident.

Every movement, every choice—deliberate.

He has seen this before. Not in villages, not in untrained hopefuls clinging to a dream, but in sects. In families who teach discipline from the moment their children can walk. In those who have power but have learned, above all else, to temper it.

So why is De here?

Why hide behind a nameless village?

The answer does not come, but the question remains.

The trial may be over.

But the real battle has only just begun.

.

The overseer arrives not with fanfare, but with quiet authority. Clad in deep grey robes, his silver hair is bound in a tight knot at the base of his neck. His weathered face holds the sharpness of a blade honed by time. Though his qi remains restrained, coiled like a serpent beneath still waters, every cultivator present feels the weight of it.

Elder Faen steps forward, his own presence dimming in comparison, yet his voice remains steady."Welcome, Overseer," he greets with a formal bow. "The village stands ready for your judgment."

The overseer's gaze sweeps across the crowd, unreadable as stone."Let us begin."

The morning heat hangs over the training grounds, thick and oppressive. Dust stirs beneath shifting feet as contenders gather once more. The overseer stands at the centre of the open space, his expression as impassive as ever.

"The second trial," he announces, his voice smooth but edged like tempered steel, "is not about strength alone, but control. True power is not reckless force—it is balance. Offense and defence must exist as one."

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a blend of anticipation and unease. Among them, Elder Faen watches, his sharp eyes rarely leaving the contenders.

With a flick of his wrist, the overseer gestures."Pair off."

Names are called, assignments made with clipped efficiency. Joran finds himself against Pell, a wiry youth known more for his speed than his strength. His muscles tense, fingers curling into fists. He doesn't plan to lose—not here, not now. Control? What use is control if power alone can break an opponent?

Kalia faces a strong-built girl from a neighboring village. She studies her opponent's stance, catching the subtle forward lean—the reliance on brute force. A weakness easily exploited. But her attention isn't truly on the girl before her. It lingers at the edge of the field, drawn to the stillness of De.

His opponent is a lean boy with a sharp scowl, someone familiar from the village square—an acquaintance of Joran's, judging by the barely concealed sneer.

The overseer raises a hand."Begin."

The air ignites with movement.

Joran lunges, his body a blur of power. His recently opened qi node flares too brightly, wild and unrestrained. Pell barely ducks in time, narrowly avoiding a strike meant to end the match in seconds.

The overseer's voice cuts through the clash of limbs."Control."

Joran grits his teeth, muscles burning with frustration. But his strikes remain forceful, his qi lashing out erratically.

Kalia moves like water, allowing her opponent to charge first. At the last possible moment, she pivots, using the girl's own momentum to send her sprawling into the dirt. Not a wasted movement. No unnecessary force. Just clean, effortless precision. Her mind remains elsewhere, though—focused on the quiet storm standing just beyond her fight.

And then, there is De.

He doesn't attack. Doesn't even move at first.

His opponent circles him, throwing qi-infused jabs, testing for weakness. But De simply watches—half-lidded eyes, body relaxed yet poised like a sheathed blade.

The boy sneers."Not going to fight back?"

A flicker of motion.

The boy lunges, aiming a palm strike at De's shoulder. At the last moment, De steps aside, his arm shifting like water to redirect the blow. In one smooth motion, he catches his opponent's wrist and turns his momentum against him.

The boy hits the ground. Hard.

The crowd falls silent.

No flare of qi. No dramatic display. Just precision. Control.

The overseer's gaze lingers on De longer than the others. That was no accident, he muses. Every movement is deliberate. Either this one has been trained, or he carries a secret worth keeping.

Joran seethes, his own match still dragging on. His qi flares hotter than he intends—too much, too fast—but he refuses to temper it. De doesn't even break a sweat. That cold precision gnaws at him, like an itch beneath his skin. How does he make it look so effortless?

Kalia watches, her thoughts sharpening. That kind of control—it isn't natural for someone from a remote village. De fights like someone used to holding back. Why?

Solar, resting in the shade, watches too. Her golden-violet eyes glimmer with something deeper, something knowing.

The second trial ends. But the real battles have only begun.

By the time the contenders gather again, the sun hangs low, stretching their shadows across the cracked earth. The heat still lingers, but something heavier weighs down the air—anticipation.

The overseer stands at the center, his presence unshaken. His gaze moves over them, slow and piercing, before settling on De for just a moment longer than the rest.

"The third trial," he finally says, "will test your ability to endure."

Joran's breath stills.

Kalia's fingers curl against her palms.

De remains silent.

"Strength alone will not save you," the overseer continues. "Nor will speed. The path of cultivation is not about defeating every opponent—it is about enduring when the world presses against you."

He steps back, drawing a line in the dirt with the toe of his boot."You will face me," he says simply. "Your task: withstand three of my attacks."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Joran's heart pounds. Three attacks? From him?

Kalia keeps her breathing steady. Watch his movements. Learn his rhythm.

Ren, standing at the edge, watches with narrowed eyes. This will reveal the truth.

De exhales slowly, mind already calculating. The overseer's stance, the slight shift in his weight—he won't hold back completely. This isn't just about testing defenses. He's studying them.

Deflect, redirect, create distance? Or step in—disrupt the attack at its root? A dangerous thought flickers. Showing too much could draw attention. Holding back too much could be seen as weakness. A fine line.

His hand still aches from Solar's bite, the wound unhealed. The sting anchors him. A reminder of their bond, their silent promise.

From the shadows, Solar watches—golden-violet eyes unblinking.

The trial hasn't begun. But the battle already has.

"You have until tomorrow to prepare."

The village murmurs in the distance, its usual life dimmed beneath the weight of expectation. Around the contenders' campfire, tension settles like a second skin.

Joran sits apart, knuckles bruised, frustration gnawing at him. He doesn't look at De—not directly—but his presence lingers like a splinter beneath his skin.

Kalia leans against a tree, fingers brushing the hilt of her blade. She isn't thinking about her own trial. It's De who occupies her thoughts—his movements, his control. He fights like someone hiding something.

Ren sits cross-legged, the ache in his ribs a dull throb. He fought desperately to survive today. De fought like someone who already knew he would.

And De…

He sits quietly, gaze caught between the fire and the sky. But his thoughts are elsewhere.

Beside him, Solar is no longer the small fox-like creature she once was. Now sleek, her dark fur laced with glowing qi patterns, she radiates quiet strength.

De's fingers ghost over the mark on his palm—a reminder of their bond. The overseer had watched him too closely today. Joran had clenched his fists too hard. Kalia's stare had lingered too long.

Tomorrow will test more than endurance.

It will decide how much longer he can remain unseen.

Dawn breaks without mercy.