The Hidden in Myth

Vern wiped the faint trail of blood from his nose

with the back of his sleeve and stood slowly beneath the tree.

His limbs ached, and the inside of his body

pulsed with lingering heat from the newly-formed Essence Thread.

He had taken a risk. A dangerous one.

But it had worked.

"One thread… It begins."

The garden around him stirred with the scent of

blooming lotuses and wind-brushed petals. But Vern's thoughts were elsewhere

now — focused, razor-sharp.

He turned toward the winding stone path that led

back toward the inner quarters.

"I'll awaken the rest inside my room," he thought. "In silence. With discipline. No distractions."

The warm sun filtered through the trees as he

walked, and the faint sound of steel meeting wood echoed through the air.

His steps slowed as he passed one of the training

courtyards — a wide, open space enclosed by stone walls and lined with practice dummies, sparring circles, and wooden weapons racks.

There, a figure danced across the stone tiles

with practiced precision.

A girl, perhaps his own age — 14 or 15 — her thick black hair tied loosely behind her back, catching the light with every movement. Her blue eyes were sharp and focused, her motions fluid as she spun and struck with an elegant wooden staff, the air whistling in her wake.

Vern recognized her immediately.

Mizune Stormvale.

His half-sister.

One of the clan's treasured daughters.

Gifted. Proud. Cold.

Her face was a blend of beauty and arrogance, the

Stormvale blood strong in her features — and her disdain even stronger in her tongue.

Vern began walking again, hoping to pass

unnoticed.

But fate, of course, did not allow such things so

easily.

"Hah!" a voice rang out behind him.

"This loser… You haven't died yet?"

Vern stopped.

The air felt heavier.

"Your luck's pretty damn high, huh?" Mizune

continued with a sneer. "Or did the heavens forget you were useless?"

Her voice was sweet like poison — smooth and

mocking, a melody meant to sting. She didn't even pause her movements, letting the staff spin in her hands as if she were playing a casual rhythm with

cruelty.

In his previous life, the old Vern would have

flinched.

Would've lowered his head.

Would've stood there, silent and defeated,

absorbing every insult like it was law.

But not this Vern.

He didn't even break his stride.

He walked past her training court without a

glance, his steps steady, his gaze forward.

Not a word.

Not a reaction.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that spoke louder than any

insult could.

Mizune faltered for half a breath, her staff

pausing mid-spin.

She blinked. Confused. Then narrowed her eyes.

"What…?" she muttered.

That wasn't how he was supposed to react.

He was supposed to cower. To shrink. To act like

the miserable child that everyone could mock without resistance.

But he hadn't.

He hadn't even looked at her.

A strange chill ran up her spine.

"You dare ignore me now?" she said quietly, her

tone darkening. "You've grown bold, brother… I'll take a closer look at you."

Her staff stopped spinning.

She turned to watch him walk away, her gaze

following him like a shadow trailing the edge of a blade.

Within the Patriarch Hall, behind the grand assembly chamber and deep past its ceremonial corridors, lay the private office of Rakel Stormvale, head of the Wind Blossom Clan.

It was a room of quiet power — elegant, but not

ostentatious. The walls were lined with ancient scrolls, rare weapons, and maps of provinces drawn with meticulous ink. A single bonsai tree rested in the corner, its gnarled shape a symbol of discipline and endurance.

In the heart of the room, beneath the glow of a

hovering essence lantern, sat Rakel Stormvale — upright yet relaxed, his crimson robes draped over one arm of the wide spiritwood chair. His long, dark hair was bound at the crown, his sharp eyes half-lidded, as if in thought.

Yet something in his posture was unsettled.

At his side stood his bodyguard, Yulen Drahm —

silent, motionless, a shadow given form. His armor bore no sigil, only the faint shimmer of hidden runes beneath the surface. Beside the door, the clan's chief advisor, Korin Thael, stood with arms folded behind his back, eyes steady behind a thin, scholarly veil.

Rakel exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once on the

armrest of his chair.

"You both saw what happened today," Rakel said,

voice low, smooth, but edged with something deeper.

He didn't glance at them. His eyes were distant,

as though watching something that still lingered in the chamber long after Vern

had left.

"Do you

think the hypocrite has changed?"

Korin tilted his head slightly.

"He spoke few words, Patriarch… but they were not the words of a beaten child."

 Rakel's eyes flicked toward him — sharp,

analytical.

"You expected him to weep?" Rakel asked.

 "No,"

Korin replied calmly. "I expected him to hide. But instead… he stood."

There was a silence. Long. Uncomfortable. The air

in the room felt like it thickened, as if even the light was waiting for the

Patriarch's verdict.

Yulen's voice, deep and quiet, broke the

stillness.

"His posture," Yulen said, "was different. It

wasn't fear… it was restraint."

Rakel leaned back further in his chair, a subtle

crease forming on his brow.

"Restraint," he echoed. "Or arrogance?"

Korin stepped forward by half a pace. "Patriarch…

he's not the same. I've watched him for years — ignored, ridiculed, dismissed

by his siblings. That boy lived in the shadow of the clan, and yet… today he

walked with a spine."

Rakel did not reply immediately. He simply stared

toward the far window, where the light of the late afternoon bled gold onto the

stone floor.

"When he

was born," Rakel said at last, his voice softer now, almost distant, "his

mother died with him still in her arms. He didn't even cry. Just opened his

eyes… quietly. Watching the world."

He paused.

"I thought

perhaps… he would break."

A long silence followed. Then:

"But maybe," Rakel murmured, "he bent instead."

Korin said nothing. Neither did Yulen.

Then, faintly — barely a flicker of motion —

something changed in Rakel's expression.

A slight smile.

It vanished almost as quickly as it came.

But Korin saw it. A flicker of surprise crossed

the advisor's face. His brows raised, ever so slightly — the smallest reaction

from a man who had spent decades masking every thought because he saw it twice today.

Rakel didn't miss it.

Without turning his head, the Patriarch said

quietly,

 "Korin…

why are you surprised by my smile?"

Korin opened his mouth, hesitated.

"I—"

But Rakel cut in, his tone mild, almost amused:

"You've seen it before. In the assembly… when the Tiger General of the Southern Marches

admitted defeat before even drawing his blade."

Korin blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched.

 "Ah. Yes, Patriarch. But back then… the enemy

knelt before you. Today, it was your own son who stood tall."

Rakel leaned back into silence again, letting

Korin's words settle like dust in the room.

The smile did not return.

But its echo lingered in the air — subtle,

silent, and heavy with meaning.