Vaern stood at the edge of the upper terrace, arms crossed, watching the crowd ripple apart below like a broken tide.
The tournament had just ended.
And still, something about it sat wrong with him.
First of all — the fight between second and third place.
Riven had struggled. And to be frank, he'd won only because of luck.
The other disciples might've seen cleverness in that fight — a last-second bait, a feint, some brilliant acting.
But Vaern knew better.
He'd watched the way Riven moved.
That wasn't acting. That wasn't layered deception.
That was genuine lack of will.
He hadn't tricked Lara.
He'd just gotten lucky.
And yes, technically, that was fine.
But after everything Vaern had taught him, drilled into him — the countless sparring matches, the brutal sessions in the training halls — he'd hoped the kid would win even without motivation.
To win by sheer power alone.
That had always been the goal.
And clearly, he still wasn't there yet.
At least… he wasn't lost in a fight anymore.
Even so, Vaern couldn't complain about his instincts.
In fact, he might not admit it, but he was quite proud.
It wasn't that long that he'd tutored him, but the boy had improved.
His decision-making in combat, his timing — it was sharper. Crisper. Focused when it needed to be.
But it wasn't enough.
Not for him.
At first Riven was just his masters new disciple.
But after spending some time with him he was more than that.
Riven was the only other beastkin in the sect besides him.
That meant something to him.
He didn't have family left.
So Riven to him, was the closest to a natural kin.
A bond of blood. Understanding that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
Vaern wanted him to succeed. Not just survive.
Dominate.
And then — that final insult.
"I surrender."
Clear. Decisive. Unapologetic.
Vaern had frozen where he stood when he heard it.
"This damn kid," he muttered.
He understood the logic. Riven didn't need first place. He was already a core disciple. Nothing else to gain.
But still.
Vaern's eyes tracked the figure of Ziren Raal as he walked away — calm, untouched, unreadable.
Look at that, he thought.
Don't you just want to fight that? Just once?
Test yourself. Push your limits.
Apparently not.
He sighed.
"Shit. I need to beat some motivation into this kid."
>>>
As the sun was starting to set, Vaern found himself walking toward Jasmine Garden — Riven's assigned residence.
No sense in waiting.
If the kid didn't have ambition, Vaern would provide it.
In the form of merciless new training.
Riven could complain later.
But he'd thank him eventually.
At least, he better.
As he turned down the narrow pathway that led into the garden quarter, Vaern slowed.
Jasmine Garden.
This was a place unlike most disciple residences.
It smelled like blooming flowers and unnecessary peace.
His nose twitched.
Too fragrant.
Is this really where he lives?
He stepped through the arching gate, boots crunching softly over the gravel path. Vines hung from the stone walls in clean loops. The lights from inside the house flickered warm and inviting.
He grimaced.
"This place…" he muttered.
Too soft. Too peaceful.
"No edge. No pressure. It's like a damn retreat center."
He glanced around again — at the immaculate garden, the artfully placed lanterns, the stupidly elegant water basin at the corner of the patio.
"…Is he growing herbs?" Vaern asked the air, offended.
He shoved the gate open fully.
"He's got beast blood, not bird blood. What is this?"
A vine brushed his boot and he stepped harder than necessary to crush it. Decorative. Waste of space.
"No wonder he surrendered. Lives like a flower, thinks like one."
But even as he grumbled, part of him was already adjusting — smoothing his tone internally.
Rationality returned.
Sure, the kid had surrendered. But tactically? He hadn't been wrong.
First place didn't mean anything to a core disciple. No additional resources. No better position. Just a title. A pointless duel for pride.
And if there was one thing Vaern didn't train for… it was empty pride.
So maybe Riven had made the right call.
Maybe.
But he was still going to yank that softness out of him before it took root.
Soon he reached the front door.
Didn't knock.
Vaern never knocked.
He pushed it open with the back of his hand, the polished wood creaking slightly as it swung inward. The inside of the residence was spotless — a faint herbal aroma in the air.
But still no sign of Riven.
"Oi," he called, voice flat but projecting. "You alive in here?"
No answer.
He stepped further in, letting the door swing shut behind him.
"Don't make me drag you out of your flower bath or whatever you—"
He stopped.
His nose twitched again.
The scent wasn't just herbal.
It was too sweet.
Too thick.
Vaern's pupils narrowed slightly.
He knew this damn scent.
"Treacherous humans."
That wasn't incense.
He moved quickly now — following the scent until it let him outside.
A thin mist was curling around, the scent heavier here, almost cloying.
He pushed forward, not bothered about this level of poison with his cultivation.
And froze.
There, in the middle of a mist-wrapped bathing pool, was Riven.
Half-submerged in the water.
Head tilted back. Barely conscious. Muscles slack.
And approaching him — barefoot, silent, lit by the soft glow of the garden lanterns — was a girl.
Small.
Dark hair, tied simply.
A servant uniform.
And in her hand?
A knife.
Short. Curved. Light enough for concealment. Polished just enough to catch the edge of the lamplight.
It hovered in her hand like an extension of her will.
Poised. Unshaking.
Moving toward Riven.
Vaern's expression didn't change.
But his foot shifted slightly on the stone floor. His balance lowered.
His next step was utterly silent.
He didn't breathe. Didn't speak.
He didn't even announce himself.
Because whatever this was…
It was over.
The blade reached Riven's neck.
And then—
It stopped.
Not because Mira hesitated.
Not because her conscience stirred.
It stopped because another hand closed around her wrist like a steel trap.
A low, grinding sound filled the air — the ugly, deliberate creak of bones being forced in directions they were not meant to go.
Mira's breath caught.
A tiny, strangled yelp tore from her throat.
Vaern didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
He stood behind her now, posture relaxed, expression unreadable, fingers tightening around her wrist with slow, merciless pressure. Her knees buckled, the knife slipping from her numb fingers and clattering across the stone with a sharp metallic ring.
In the next moment, Vaern released her wrist with a flick — just enough force to send her tumbling backward. Mira hit the ground hard, sliding across the smooth stone until her back struck the garden wall with a hollow thud.
She gasped for air, clutching her wrist, eyes wide with pain and… fear.
For the first time, Vaern actually acknowledged her existence with a look.
A cold one.
He knelt beside Riven, placing two fingers against his neck, then his temple. Checking pulse. Temperature. Breath.
Stable.
Alive.
Just unconscious.
His jaw tightened slightly — a quiet storm contained behind clenched teeth.
Then he stood.
Turned.
And fixed Mira with the kind of stare predators gave cornered prey.
"Where," Vaern said, voice low enough to scrape across the air, "is the antidote?"
Mira froze.
Her eyes darted — toward the fallen knife, toward the door, toward the shadows behind Vaern, calculating, panicking, realizing.
He took one step.
Her breath hitched.
"You're too weak to fight me," Vaern continued, tone flat, unhurried. "Too weak to drug him without protecting yourself from the fumes. You have an antidote."
Another step.
Mira pressed herself harder into the wall, trembling, clutching her wrist.
"Toss it over," Vaern said, "and maybe you walk out of here breathing."
Silence.
Only the water rippled.
Only Riven's quiet exhale broke the stillness.
Mira's lips parted.
But she didn't speak.
Instead—
Her trembling hand slowly moved…
Not to her pocket.
Not to an antidote.
But toward something hidden beneath the hem of her robes.
Something small. Dark.
Vaern's eyes narrowed—