Veins Below the Path

I woke to the sound of rain—a rare occurrence in the Veilroot.

Droplets pattered against the wooden roof of my hut, creating a rhythm that might have been soothing under different circumstances.

My body felt tense, coiled like a spring.

I hadn't slept much, just dozed fitfully through the night hours, my mind refusing to quiet.

Through the small window, I could see the training ground glistening with moisture, the mist thicker than usual.

And in the distance, the spatial fold still waited.

It flickered occasionally, brief surges of instability that distorted its edges before settling again.

I rose and prepared myself methodically.

Washed and dressed. Stretched tired muscles. Centered my thoughts as best I could.

Today I would leave this place.

Return to the regular world with the skills I'd gained.

Begin the real work of surviving in Virelia.

I checked my status window one final time:

Name: Zensalem Holloway

Race: Human

Innate Essence: [Shadow]

Essence Rank: E

Essence Flow: 35/100

Essence Mark: None

Vein Stability: 100%

Known Techniques: Shadow Weight, Shadow Extension, Light Bend

Affiliation: None

Not impressive by this world's standards, but a vast improvement from when I'd arrived.

E rank. Nearly triple my original Flow capacity. Multiple functional techniques.

Enough to give me a fighting chance, at least.

I stepped outside, feeling the cool mist against my skin.

Jirou was already waiting in the center of the training ground, perfectly still despite the light rain.

"You are leaving today," he stated as I approached—not a question.

"Yes," I confirmed. "Time to apply what I've learned."

Jirou studied me with those bottomless black eyes.

"Your progress has been exceptional," he said. "But there is one final step before departure."

My guard instantly raised.

"What kind of step?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

"You've walked far," Jirou said, his voice taking on an almost ceremonial quality. "Come—I must anchor your progress."

He turned and began walking toward the far edge of the training ground—away from the spatial fold, toward an area shrouded in thicker mist.

I hesitated, every instinct screaming caution.

But refusing outright would confirm any suspicions he might have about my distrust.

I followed at a measured distance, shadow essence flowing subtly through my pathways, enhancing my perception and readying my body for rapid response.

Jirou led me through the mist to an area I'd never seen before—or perhaps had never been allowed to see.

The ground sloped downward slightly, opening into a circular depression perhaps thirty feet across.

At its center lay a stone circle, carved with intricate channels that formed patterns similar to the binding array I'd glimpsed beneath the training ground.

The channels were filled with a silvery liquid that pulsed with soft light.

"What is this place?" I asked, remaining at the edge of the depression.

"The Anchor Circle," Jirou replied. "Where training is sealed into essence memory."

He gestured for me to join him at the center.

"The process ensures your progress remains stable when you return to the outside world," he explained. "Without it, much of what you've gained could deteriorate rapidly."

A reasonable explanation.

Too reasonable.

I approached slowly, studying the stone circle with enhanced perception.

The patterns were complex—spirals interlocking with angular formations, creating what looked like a massive circuit diagram.

Or a trap.

"Stand here," Jirou instructed, indicating the exact center of the circle.

I complied, positioning myself on a smooth stone disk embedded in the design.

"What exactly does this process involve?" I asked.

"I will activate the Anchor Circle," Jirou explained, kneeling at the edge of the pattern. "It will resonate with your essence signature, creating a permanent reference point."

He placed his hands on two nodes in the pattern.

"Your body will feel heavy briefly," he continued. "This is normal. The weight of memory settling into permanence."

The silvery liquid in the channels began to glow more brightly as Jirou channeled energy into the array.

I felt the first resonance immediately—a subtle vibration that started in my feet and traveled upward through my body.

Not unpleasant, but strange.

Unfamiliar.

The vibration intensified, the silvery channels pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.

Jirou began a low chant in a language I didn't recognize—harsh, angular sounds that seemed to bend the very air around us.

As the chant continued, the heaviness he'd mentioned began to set in.

My limbs felt weighted, as if gravity had doubled around me.

My thoughts slowed, becoming sluggish.

The world seemed to blur slightly at the edges.

Through increasingly foggy perception, I noticed something alarming.

The pattern beneath my feet was changing.

Rearranging itself.

The silvery liquid flowing into new configurations that looked nothing like an anchoring array.

It looked like binding.

Restraint.

I tried to step away from the center.

My body refused to respond.

I attempted to gather shadow essence to break whatever was affecting me.

The energy stuttered and dispersed, unable to form coherent patterns.

Panic flared, cutting through the mental fog.

"What are you doing?" I managed to ask, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.

Jirou's chanting stopped.

He rose smoothly, approaching with measured steps.

"What I have always done," he replied, his black eyes revealing nothing. "Completing the cycle."

He circled me once, studying my increasingly paralyzed form with clinical detachment.

"You are exceptional," he noted. "The quality of your essence signature. The adaptability of your pathways. The resonance of your potential. Far above average."

He stopped directly in front of me.

"You'll fetch a premium," he added, almost as an afterthought.

The fog in my mind cleared slightly, burned away by surging adrenaline.

I fought against the invisible restraints with everything I had.

Poured every ounce of my will into breaking free.

My fingers twitched—a tiny victory that accomplished nothing.

"The struggle is pointless," Jirou observed. "The binding is already settling into your core."

His right hand began to glow with a strange, inversed light—not illumination, but the absence of it.

A perfect darkness that seemed to absorb the very air around it.

"The body remembers its trainer," he said, the ceremonial quality returning to his voice. "So do buyers."

Without warning, he thrust his shadow-wreathed hand directly into my chest.

There was no blood, no tearing of flesh—his hand simply phased through my physical form.

But the pain.

The pain was beyond anything I'd experienced.

Beyond anything I could have imagined.

White-hot agony exploded from the point of contact, radiating through every nerve, every cell.

I wanted to scream.

Couldn't even open my mouth.

Through the haze of torment, I felt Jirou doing something to my essence core—the central point where all my pathways converged.

Binding. Marking. Claiming.

"You were never meant to walk out," he said, his voice now distant through the roaring in my ears. "None of you were."

The pain intensified, consciousness beginning to fray at the edges.

With his free hand, Jirou made a sharp gesture toward the distant spatial fold.

It pulsed once, brightly, then contracted.

Sealed shut.

My last fragmented thought before darkness claimed me:

I should have known.

No one gives power without wanting something in return.

Nothing in this world is free.

Everything has a price.

And I was about to pay mine.

My eyes fluttered shut as consciousness slipped away.

The last thing I heard was Jirou's voice, no longer my teacher but my captor.

"Preparation complete," he said to someone or something I couldn't see. "The specimen is ready for transport."

Then nothing.