Chapter 15 - Recognition

The silence stretches across the training grounds, the dust still settling from the violent clash. The overseer exhales, his voice quieter now, steadier.

"I went too far."

The admission ripples through the gathered crowd, a murmur of disbelief shifting through the spectators. No overseer, no cultivator of his rank, would say such a thing lightly. Yet he does not explain further. Instead, he reaches into his robes, withdrawing a small jade vial. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it toward De.

"A high-grade healing pill," he says. "Take it."

The vial lands neatly in De's palm. He doesn't open it, doesn't even glance down. His ribs burn, his hands ache, but his gaze stays locked on the overseer, searching for the meaning behind the gesture.

"Why?" De asks, his voice even.

A pause. A flicker of something in the overseer's sharp, assessing gaze.

"You will need it."

No further explanation follows. He simply turns away, shifting his attention back to the remaining competitors as though nothing had transpired between them. Yet the weight of the moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable.

Elder Faen studies them both, his expression unreadable but thoughtful. Belar stands stiff at the edge of the crowd, fingers twitching at his sides. Kalia exhales, slow and deliberate, her dark eyes locked onto De as if seeing him for the first time.

Joran stands tense, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles pale.

At the outskirts of the training field, Solar watches, her towering, newly evolved form casting a long, dark shadow across the ground.

The trial is over.

The quiet that follows is heavier than any battle. Dust still drifts through the air, illuminated by the waning afternoon light. The overseer remains motionless for a long moment, his fingers slowly unclenching from the last strike he delivered. For the first time since the trials began, he appears to hesitate—if only for a fraction of a breath.

His gaze flickers toward De once more, sharp as a tempered blade.

"Impressive," he finally murmurs, his voice a low rumble that carries through the hushed crowd. "Foolish… but impressive."

A shift.

The murmurs begin again, whispers curling through the gathered cultivators like smoke.

Joran barely hears them over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. His breath is still uneven from his own trial, his body aching from the force of the overseer's blows. Yet De had done more than endure—he had fought back. And worse, the overseer had acknowledged it.

Joran's nails bite into his palms, his hands still trembling from exertion. Every second of training, every sacrifice, every bruise—he had earned his strength through sheer force of will. And yet, De stood there, making it look effortless. The bitterness coils in his chest like a viper.

That should have been me.

Kalia remains still, but the calculation in her eyes sharpens. She had always sensed there was something more to De, something beneath the quiet exterior. But now? Now, she knows. His technique, his instincts—this isn't the structured, refined combat of sect disciples. It's something rawer, something unpredictable.

Something dangerous.

Her fingers brush against the hilt of her dagger. Every fight she's witnessed, every opponent she's measured—none have moved quite like him. A street brawler's foundation, yet controlled enough to stand against the overseer himself. Who taught him to fight like that? It makes no sense. And yet, watching him, something unfamiliar stirs within her.

Recognition.

Elder Faen watches from a distance, unreadable as ever. His mind, however, churns through the implications. Decades of experience tell him this is not the product of mere talent. De fights with tempered control, honed discipline—not just raw power, but something sharper, something crafted over time.

That kind of precision isn't found in villages like this. It isn't luck. It's training.

His mind drifts to the hooded alchemist, the mysterious figure whose spiritual pills had stirred the village into a frenzy. A personal quest for a breakthrough had made Elder Faen keep his ears open to such rumors. Could there be a connection?

If I can secure an audience with the hooded alchemist… perhaps my own path will change.

At the edge of the field, Belar's stomach twists. Weeks of suspicion coil tighter in his chest, his tangled theories snapping into uneasy alignment.

De isn't just talented—he's trained.

The way he moves, the way he reacts—it's too measured, too precise. The ease in which he shifted from defense to attack in the trial wasn't the mark of an eager young cultivator. It was something ingrained, something that came before the trials.

Belar's fingers twitch at his sides. His mind races through possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last.

Who are you, De? And how much do you know?

For weeks, Belar had assumed De was another competitor. A contender. But now? Now, the hooded alchemist's presence looms in his mind. Could they be the same person?

If De is the hooded alchemist, then everything changes.

If he isn't—then it means he has a master. And that thought is far more dangerous.

Solar shifts beside De, her presence no longer that of a small, fox-like creature. She looms now, her newly evolved, lion-like form draped in shadows. The faint violet qi lines pulsing beneath her black fur glow subtly, responding to the tension in the air. Her golden-violet eyes flicker toward the overseer, a silent warning in their depths.

The overseer breathes out, breaking the moment.

"You will feel the repercussions of that clash, whether today or tomorrow," he says, his tone unreadable. "Take it."

De's gaze flicks to the bottle still in his hand. A high-grade healing pill. An apology in the form of medicine. An unspoken acknowledgment.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, without a word, he nods, slipping the vial into his cloak instead of his pouch. No thanks. No ceremony. Just quiet acceptance.

A flicker of something crosses the overseer's face—amusement? Approval? It's gone too quickly to tell.

"The third trial is complete," he announces, his voice carrying through the tense air. "Five contenders remain standing. You will be given your sect selection tokens at sundown. Until then… reflect on what you have learned."

The crowd begins to disperse, but the weight of what has just occurred lingers in the air, pressing heavy on the remaining competitors.

Joran storms off, frustration radiating from his rigid frame.

Kalia remains, still watching. Still calculating.

Belar lingers at the edges, his mind a tangled mess of theories and suspicions.

And Elder Faen… Elder Faen breathes in deeply, ambition threading tighter around his thoughts.

De feels it—the weight of their stares, the silent scrutiny from every angle. But he has long since learned to live beneath watchful eyes.

Without another glance back, he turns toward the treeline, his steps unhurried.

Solar moves beside him, her presence a quiet storm at his side.

There is no need to celebrate.

No need to linger.

Because this?

This is only the beginning.