Kael sat hunched in the chair, the second scroll unfurled across his lap. His breath came slow and measured, not from calm—but from effort. Even sitting took something out of him.
His body still hadn't recovered. A thread of veinfire had returned, just enough to keep him upright, but not enough to use. Not yet.
So he read.
The scroll detailed a technique called Prism Fang—an offensive form, split into four elemental styles. Each one manipulated veinfire into a different nature depending on the form used.
That part intrigued him.
It didn't demand mastery over the elements themselves. Instead, the form—the breathing, the posture, the motion—shaped your veinfire for you. No deep affinity required. Just precision.
The first form was called Serpentine Flow.
It started with a sharp inhale. Shoulders relaxed. Arms loose.
Feet shoulder-width, knees slightly bent—ready to shift.
The body rotated in a spiraling motion, winding veinfire around the core and limbs like a coiling snake. The motion ended in a sudden strike—palm or elbow.
Two fangs of veinfire formed over the striking limb.
On impact, they fractured and erupted in flame.
Kael frowned slightly, tracing the form's final motion in the air with his fingers. Simple enough in theory. He could almost feel the twist of the spine, the flare of heat building in the motion.
Direct. Explosive. Probably best for one-on-one...
His hand dropped back into his lap.
His limbs still ached. Even the idea of doing that full-speed made something in his shoulder protest.
The next form was Still Root.
This one called for an entirely different rhythm.
Slow breath. Deep inhale, slower exhale.
Feet planted. Back straight. One hand near the chest, the other lowered to the side.
Veinfire gathered in stillness—not like a blaze, but a coiled chill.
The strike was a firm press. Palm, elbow, forearm—it didn't matter. The motion wasn't fast, but it was deliberate. Focused.
Again, the silver fang appeared at the moment of contact—only this time, it fractured outward in a freezing pulse, spreading cold through a radius.
Kael sat with that for a moment, absorbing the differences.
One burns forward. The other spreads out. Fire for focus. Ice for area.
He exhaled through his nose.
These aren't just flashy—they're practical. Smart.
A brief smile touched his lips. For a second, he forgot the fatigue chewing at his muscles. He wasn't just reading—he was learning something useful. Something real.
Then his eyes skimmed further down the scroll.
There were two more forms—Snapping Pulse and Slicing Gale. He only caught pieces. One used lightning. The other, wind. The scroll hinted at more complex breathwork, twitchier stances, faster movement.
His head pulsed.
Later, he told himself, rolling the scroll back up partway. My body wouldn't survive a twitch right now, let alone a 'snapping pulse.'
He leaned back in the chair and let his eyes drift shut for a moment.
The forms replayed behind his eyelids—flames twisting, frost spreading. Silver fangs. Striking limbs. That perfect moment before impact.
I'll need to test them. Train them. See if they're more than just theory.
His hand found the final scroll on the table. The motion was sluggish, but determined.
He unrolled the scroll slowly. The parchment felt different—thin and cold, like it had been pressed from mist. Veins of silver ink webbed across it, pulsing faintly under the light. It didn't shimmer like the others. It breathed.
He tugged it free, and the title scrawled across the top brought a grin to his face.
"Echo Guard—Ghost Ledger," he read aloud.
Something about the name felt different. Defensive, maybe. Mysterious.
One thing at a time, he thought, the grin lingering.
"Well, that sounds edgy. Ghost Ledger," Kael muttered, half-smirking.
Kael leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"A defensive skill. Interesting."
Echo Guard—Ghost Ledger.
It sounded simple. Too simple. And that usually meant trouble.
He read on. The technique created a reactive barrier—small, not much bigger than his hand or forearm. Not a wall, not even a shield. A membrane, just hovering above his skin. A veil of veinfire tuned to some kind of frequency that let it remember the attack that hit it.
Memory as defense, Kael thought, intrigued. That's clever. Creepy too.
When an enemy struck, the veil absorbed part of the force—not all of it—and recorded the motion, the rhythm, the intent. Kael would then pull that echo inward, guiding it along his left meridian. The image it painted in his mind was vivid: silver veinfire spiraling like threads of smoke through muscle and bone, coiling into glowing glyphs that marked his skin.
The ghost of the strike, held just beneath the surface.
It could be released in two ways: a lesser echo hovering like an afterimage—cheap on veinfire—or as a full veinfire construct that replicated the original strike in full, at a cost. That part fascinated him. The idea of reflecting someone's attack right back at them with their own power… it felt personal. Like vengeance turned into technique.
But it wasn't all good news.
"Only blocks half the damage," Kael muttered. His eyes lingered on the line.
He imagined taking a blow to the ribs, hard enough to knock him off his feet, just to return it with a ghostly copy. It would hurt. It would cost. But if timed right… it could shift the entire flow of a fight.
I can't afford mistakes with this one. It's not about strength—it's about timing. Precision. Calm under pressure.
He hated that.
Still, he couldn't deny the potential. It was a skill born of patience and pain. A counter not just in motion, but in mindset.
Kael sighed and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. His body still felt heavy from burnout, his veins sluggish. But the ache had dulled, and his limbs no longer trembled. He could move. Practice, if not fight.
He clenched his fist.
"Good enough for me."
He pushed away from the table and stepped outside into the clearing. The air was cool and still. The kind of quiet that made you feel like you were being watched—by ghosts, or memories, or maybe just the weight of what you hadn't done yet.
He stood tall. Shoulders relaxed. A quick inhale. Arms loose. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent.
He exhaled, then drew a sharp breath in, igniting movement.
His body twisted into Serpentine Flow, the first of the attack forms—sharp, coiled motion that spiraled veinfire around his arms and core. He felt the tug of power, faint but real. Just embers. Not enough to spark a proper flare.
Still, he completed the strike, driving an open palm forward into empty air.
He held the pose for a moment, breathing hard.
Too slow. Weight shifted late. Core off-center.
He dropped the stance, rolling out his shoulder. He could feel the imperfection like a bruise in the shape of a lesson.
But that was fine.
He had time to improve.
Or so he thought.
Kael stood in the hall, breath steadying, arms hanging loose at his sides.
His second attempt at Serpentine Flow had been worse than the first. Sloppy rotation, late veinfire response. His body still felt like it belonged to someone else—half-numb, half-numbed. But his will held steady.
He looked down at his palm, fingers trembling faintly.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "Burn it in. One motion at a time."
A gust of wind brushed the grass around his feet, and for a moment, the stillness wrapped around him like a shroud. No one watching. No one guiding. Just him, the scrolls, and the echo of pain still lingering behind his ribs.
He took his stance again.
Then again.
And again.
By the tenth repetition, he didn't care how bad it looked. He only cared that it was his.