The training grounds were different now.
Before, Raen had watched them from the outer walls, broken and bitter, while the clan's chosen trained under banners and sun.
Now, he stood inside the ring.
The crowd buzzed—disciples, elders, and aspirants packed the arena. Not cheering. Just… watching.
Waiting.
Nira stood at the edge, arms crossed, her eyes flicking to every elder on the platform. Talin lounged nearby, chewing something bitter and loud. "You know," he said between bites, "you've made more enemies by surviving than most people do by killing."
Raen didn't answer.
He was staring at the other end of the ring.
Where Kael Vohar stepped into view.
The cousin who shattered his leg.
The golden boy of the clan.
The one who had everything—and threw Raen into exile without a second glance.
Kael's red cloak snapped in the wind as he drew his pristine longsword.
"Didn't expect to see you again," he said, tone casual. "Let alone with a blade."
Raen's eyes were calm. "I never expected you to be this afraid."
Kael's jaw twitched.
From the elder platform, Maenor rose.
"Today's duel is to test the reinstated disciple's stability under combat. The terms are simple: fight until surrender or incapacitation. Life and death are discouraged—but accidents are not punished."
A hush fell.
Raen stepped into the center.
So did Kael.
The judge raised a hand. "Begin."
---
Kael moved first.
Fast.
Raen flickered back, the old whisper already alive in his bones: One step before—one breath inside the blade.
Kael's strike was clean and heavy, honed through years of elite drills. His technique was textbook perfection. But Raen wasn't playing by books.
He bent low, twisted into a counter-parry, and redirected Kael's swing into the dirt.
The crowd gasped.
Kael hissed, drawing back. "You learned tricks from ghosts. That won't save you."
Raen didn't speak. He let his sword answer.
Whisper Form Two: Echo Parry.
The move wasn't flashy—just precise. Raen intercepted the second strike with a fluid deflection and stepped inside Kael's guard. A sharp hilt blow cracked against Kael's jaw.
The older boy stumbled.
Gasps again.
Raen stepped back.
Kael's eyes burned.
He dropped into a crouch—activating his family technique, the Crimson Spiral Dance.
Red light spun around his blade as he rushed forward, slashing three times in an arc that blurred with heat.
Raen barely dodged the first. Blocked the second.
The third drew blood.
His arm split open from shoulder to wrist.
The whispers inside him screamed—but Raen silenced them.
And in that moment of clarity, he saw Kael's rhythm break.
He stepped in.
Flicker Step.
Then—
Whisper Form Four: Stillness Cutter.
Raen's blade met Kael's with a scream of steel—and Kael's sword shattered.
Fragments flew.
Kael stood, stunned, blood on his cheek, nothing in his hands.
Raen leveled his broken weapon at his cousin's throat.
"Yield."
Kael's lip curled.
But he did.
The judge called it.
Cheers erupted—but not from joy. From shock. No one had expected the ghost to rise. Not like this.
Elder Maenor's face was unreadable.
Raen turned, arm still bleeding, and walked away from Kael, from the circle, and from the version of himself who once begged for a second chance.
That version was gone.
---
📍 That Night
Raen sat by the graveyard again, the Veinblade beside him.
Kavran's voice spoke softly.
"You have passed the first gate. But your whispers grow louder."
Raen stared at the stars.
"I'm ready."
A pause.
"Then it's time to go where the silence was born."