The next day, Belar's curiosity sharpened into resolve. Suspicion was a quiet poison, but one he knew how to wield. If the hooded alchemist wouldn't reveal themselves, then the next best path was to untangle the threads around De.
He began his subtle investigation at dawn. The market square was waking, merchants setting up their stalls with half-lidded eyes and groggy movements. Belar didn't rush. He never did. His steps were slow, purposeful, giving him time to observe without seeming like he was watching.
De's routine, as it turned out, was surprisingly consistent—almost too much so.
Morning found him at the forge, hammering metal with a precision that spoke of both experience and control. Belar positioned himself at a distance, feigning interest in a nearby stall. The rhythmic clang of steel against steel rang out, a steady beat that seemed to mirror De's demeanour—calm, unyielding, and methodical. He didn't waste movement, didn't pause unnecessarily. Each strike was a calculated effort, reinforcing his body as much as shaping the weapon beneath his hand.
Belar's gaze lingered not just on the hammer but on De himself. His sleeves, though rolled up, revealed more than just muscle honed from labor—they showed control over his breathing, a telltale sign of someone undergoing body tempering. The faint pulse of qi at each movement, the way his stance never faltered—these were not the habits of a simple blacksmith's apprentice.
But it was the subtleties that gnawed at Belar the most.
There was a moment—a brief flicker—when De adjusted the forge's flames with a twist of his wrist, and Belar could have sworn he felt a ripple of qi merge with the heat. Too precise to be instinctual, too smooth to be untrained. It sent a chill through Belar's spine. Was De using his cultivation in the forge, blending the physical and the spiritual so seamlessly that only someone with a keen eye would notice?
At midday, De left the forge and retreated into the forest beyond the village's edge.
Belar followed, keeping his distance, his steps light against the leaf-strewn ground. The woods were quiet, save for the occasional chirp of a bird or rustle of distant prey. De-Reece, however, moved with an ease that suggested familiarity. He didn't stumble, didn't hesitate—his path was deliberate.
When they reached a small clearing, Belar watched from the shadows as De began a series of fluid motions. Training forms. Each movement sharpened the air, a blend of martial techniques and qi circulation. The intensity grew as De moved from one form to the next, Solar—a spiritual beast disguised in feline form—silently mirroring him like a shadow.
What struck Belar the most wasn't the forms themselves but the harmony. It was as though De and the creature were linked, moving with an unspoken understanding. A spiritual beast responding so naturally, so obediently—this was rare.
But Belar dared not move closer.
There was a moment when Solar's ears twitched, and his gaze flickered sharply to the very thicket where Belar crouched. A cold sweat prickled along Belar's neck. For a brief second, he feared the creature had seen through his concealment. He dared not breathe, muscles coiled tight, ready to slip further into the brush if needed. A spiritual beast of that caliber—if it decided to lash out—could expose him in an instant.
Belar's fear wasn't just of being discovered—it was of what that discovery might mean. If De was bonded to such a creature, it hinted at an uncommon level of control, even power. And if Solar recognized Belar from his prior alchemical dealings, it could ruin his subtle pursuit.
By evening, De returned to the village, purchasing herbs once more from the same vendor at the market—nothing too rare, but Belar noticed how the young man's fingers lingered over certain selections just a second too long. An alchemist's eye, no doubt.
Belar didn't approach this time. He didn't need to.
Instead, he let the weight of his suspicions settle. De was no ordinary villager. His precise routine, his control over qi, his silent connection to a spiritual beast, and his pointed interest in alchemy—it all formed a pattern.
And Belar was going to unravel it, thread by thread.
Kalia's curiosity had always been a sharp blade—careful, deliberate, and dangerous if wielded too quickly. Yet, for the first time, she wondered if her relentless need to uncover the truth might cut both ways. What if De's secrets were more than she could handle? What if exposing him brought consequences not just for herself, but for the village? But De was a riddle she couldn't put down, a thread she kept tugging at despite her better judgment.—careful, deliberate, and dangerous if wielded too quickly. But De was a riddle she couldn't put down, a thread she kept tugging at despite her better judgment.
It started with small things—fleeting observations that built upon each other like stones in a wall. She noticed how De's movements were too fluid for a simple blacksmith's apprentice, how his balance never faltered, and how his strikes at the forge mirrored the precision of martial forms. The way his muscles shifted, the subtle control over his breath—it was all too disciplined, too refined.
The hooded alchemist had sent a ripple through the village, and though no one dared say it outright, a sense of restless intrigue now brewed among the young cultivators. Kalia heard whispers when she walked through the market and saw the way hopeful eyes scanned the stalls, waiting for the mysterious figure to reappear. Some spoke of seeking out the alchemist, hoping to gain an edge for the upcoming sect selection. Others speculated about the alchemist's identity—was it an elder testing them? A rogue cultivator? An outsider?
Kalia didn't waste time with speculation. She focused on De.
She had started watching him more closely—first, at the forge, her presence masked by an idle conversation with the smith or casual browsing. But she saw more than just steel being shaped. She saw a man who, with each strike of the hammer, seemed to temper not just the blade, but himself. There was an underlying rhythm to it all, like a martial form disguised as labour. And sometimes, just sometimes, she thought she caught a faint flicker of something more—an almost imperceptible pulse of qi, merging with the heat of the flames.
One afternoon, she followed him—not too closely, but not far enough to lose sight—when he left the forge and headed for the forest's edge. She moved with trained steps, her own body tempered by years of preparation for the sect trials. De didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he did and simply didn't care.
Kalia hid herself behind a thick oak as De entered a small clearing. She watched as he began a series of training forms, each movement flowing into the next like water—graceful yet fierce. But what unsettled her most was the cat-like creature at his side.
Solar.
She had seen the beast with De before, but only in passing—always small, always draped lazily over his shoulder like an ordinary pet. But here, in this quiet clearing, Solar moved in perfect tandem with De. Each shift of the creature's lithe body mirrored De's strikes and footwork, as though the two shared an unspoken connection.
Kalia's pulse quickened. A spiritual beast wasn't just a rare companion—it was a mark of power. Bonding with such a creature required not just strength, but a certain level of cultivation.
Her grip on the bark of the oak tightened, a mix of fear and exhilaration coiling within her. The fear of what she might uncover, the exhilaration of stepping closer to a truth that felt both forbidden and irresistible.
"Just who are you, De?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She didn't dare move closer. Not with Solar's ears twitching at the faintest sound, not with De's sharp gaze scanning the trees every so often. She stayed hidden, heart pounding like a drum, watching the strange dance between man and beast.
When De finally left the clearing and returned to the village, Kalia remained for a long while, her thoughts a tangled knot.
De wasn't just a blacksmith's apprentice. And if he wasn't the hooded alchemist himself, then he was something equally dangerous.
And Kalia intended to find out exactly what.
Suspicion tightens its grip around the village, coiling through whispered conversations and lingering glances. It slithers beneath the surface, unseen yet palpable, spreading like ink in water. Belar watches it take shape with the patience of a hunter, his mind a battlefield of doubt and certainty. The hooded alchemist remains an enigma—a phantom disrupting the fragile order he has spent years cultivating. Yet, a thread emerges, thin but undeniable, leading back to De.
And if unraveling it exposes something deeper, so be it.
Mist lingers in the morning air as Belar approaches the forge. The clang of steel against steel rings out, steady and unyielding, a rhythm as familiar as breath. De works with practiced precision, each strike measured, each movement devoid of excess. The heat of the flames dances across his skin, but nothing in his demeanor suggests strain. Every shift in his posture, every controlled breath, speaks of something beyond simple blacksmithing.
Belar lingers at the threshold, observing.
A flick of the wrist, a seemingly minor adjustment to the forge's heat, and something shifts—too subtle for an untrained eye, but not for him. That kind of precision is not instinct. It is control.
Stepping forward, Belar speaks with casual ease. "Another fine piece in the works, De?"
The hammer does not falter, but there is a pause—brief, almost imperceptible. "Just doing my job."
Deflection. Expected.
Leaning against a wooden post, Belar lets the heat brush against his skin. "The sect trials are near. Everyone's restless."
De finishes another strike before setting the hammer aside, gaze impassive. "I've heard."
A neutral answer. Too neutral.
Belar presses on. "Interesting timing, isn't it? The hooded alchemist appears, selling high-quality pills, and now the village is on fire with ambition. Makes you wonder."
A bead of sweat rolls down De's temple, but not from discomfort. He wipes it away with the back of his arm, unreadable. "Rumors spread fast."
A perfect evasion. But not a dismissal.
Belar watches, waiting for the slip that does not come. So, he changes tactics. Fingers dip into the pouch at his belt, drawing out a slender stalk of moonshade. The delicate blue petals catch the light, their faint glow betraying their worth.
"Found this the other day." He turns it slowly, as if inspecting it. "Strange thing to come across. Rare. Not something you just stumble upon."
De's gaze flickers, momentary and detached. "Looks like a weed."
A precise dodge, but not one that fools him. Belar chuckles, slipping the herb back into his pouch. "Maybe so."
The game is set.
He lets silence stretch, then steps back. "I suppose the sect trials will answer a lot of questions."
No response, but the weight lingers.
The village breathes anticipation. The sect trials loom, casting a long shadow over the streets. For the young cultivators, it is more than an opportunity—it is a reckoning. To succeed is to step beyond the village's limits. To fail is to remain, bound by small ambitions and smaller futures.
Belar feels it pressing against him. Training intensifies. Conversations sharpen with purpose. And through it all, the hooded alchemist's influence grows, unseen yet ever-present.
Joran trains harder, strikes faster. The desperation in his eyes is unmistakable—power just beyond reach, and he is willing to bleed for it.
Kalia lingers at the forge, watching but not speaking. Her gaze follows De, tracking his movements with the quiet scrutiny of a blade pressed against the skin. She is searching for something, though she has yet to give voice to it.
And De—De moves through it all with the same calm, the same precision. Unshaken. Unbothered.
That, more than anything, sets Belar on edge.
The village square pulses with an energy not felt in months. Anticipation simmers beneath every exchange, every hurried step. At the fountain's edge, Kalia stands with arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp.
The announcement reaches her ears before it even leaves Elder Faen's lips.
The overseer arrives in three days.
A ripple spreads through the gathered crowd. For some, hope ignites. For others, fear takes root.
Kalia remains still.
Sect trials are never simple. Strength alone is not enough. Talent, bloodline, influence—all play their part in determining fate. Some overseers judge fairly. Others are easily swayed.
She watches the reactions unfold, gaze flicking past familiar faces. Joran, loud and brash, stands among a cluster of cultivators, his chest puffed with pride. His voice carries as he boasts of his fifth opened node—this one in his hand, for sharper strikes, faster channeling of qi. A calculated choice, or so he claims.
But Joran does not hold her attention.
De stands at the forge's edge, speaking in quiet tones with his master. The energy around him does not shift, does not change. Indifferent. Detached. While the village brims with anxious fervor, he remains steady.
Kalia's grip tightens around the dagger at her belt, fingers pressing into the worn leather. The urge to act—to challenge, to unearth the truth—burns in her chest.
Suspicion is no longer enough.
She needs answers.
The announcement fades, but its impact lingers.
Three days.
The village will become an arena, a battleground where ambition collides with reality. Strength will be tested. Dreams will be severed.
Secrets—if left unguarded—will be exposed.
De does not waver. But the weight of watchful eyes presses against him.
Kalia sharpens her blade.
Belar tightens his net.
And the storm of the sect trials looms ever closer.