The cult did not sleep, not truly. Even in the deepest hours of night, there was always movement—a whisper of training, the flicker of blades in shadowed courtyards, or the distant scream of a failing disciple dragged away for punishment.
Lucius had grown used to it. He no longer startled at the shrill wails that echoed from the deeper tunnels, nor did he turn toward every flicker of movement in the periphery. He had learned what the others had not:
The things that moved in the dark weren't always meant to be seen.
Tonight, his feet padded across the cold stone floor with measured silence. He moved like a thread through the shadows, gliding toward the hidden passage beyond the barracks. It was his fourth week training under Venar, and the lessons were becoming stranger.
Last time, Venar had made him drink a bitter concoction that dulled his sight but heightened his sense of hearing. Blindfolded, he had been forced to listen to the heartbeat of his opponent—a silent gray-robed woman named Syrr—while dodging her softest movements. He had failed. But by the end, he could hear her breathe between steps.
Now, Venar waited again in the cold training hall below the Shadow Sect's lesser sanctum. No lanterns were lit tonight. Only faint blue crystal dust outlined the walls, providing a ghostly hue.
Lucius knelt before him in silence.
"You've learned how to move without being seen," Venar said, his voice gravel in the stillness. "Now you will learn how to think without being heard."
Lucius's brow furrowed slightly. "Think…?"
"Every fighter reacts. But the ones who control the battlefield… anticipate. Predict. Trap." Venar gestured to a low table behind him, where seven black stones and seven white stones were arranged in a strange pattern on a square board. "This is the Board of Void Paths. A tool of old assassins. Used to plan infiltration… and extermination."
Lucius stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the layout. It was unfamiliar but oddly intuitive—like a reflection of his own training, distilled into symbols.
Venar tapped the board.
"There is only one rule: The blade that is seen cannot kill."
The lesson began.
The game was not simple. Each stone represented a step, an action, or a decision. Lucius had to place them in sequence, showing how an infiltrator would eliminate a target within a manor defended by guards, traps, and hidden cultivators.
Every move had consequences. One wrong step, and the entire operation collapsed.
Lucius made his first few moves—conservative, safe. A hidden approach through the servants' quarters. Poison placed in the food. A quick kill during the nightwatch's rotation.
Venar swept the board clean in an instant.
"Too slow. Someone else arrives before you. The target dies, but not by your hand. You are forgotten."
Lucius frowned.
He tried again. This time, faster. Bolder.
But Venar again wiped the board.
"Too loud. The guards found the scent of blood. You're dead in the garden."
Again.
And again.
By the sixth attempt, Lucius felt frustration building. But then… something shifted. His memory activated.
He remembered the training fields. The paths guards took when patrolling the Outer Disciples' barracks. He remembered how Elder Faerin always turned left when entering the hall. He remembered the hesitation in Syrr's step during her sparring feint.
He began to see patterns.
The seventh time, his hands moved differently.
He laid the stones in a strange formation—one that didn't attack the target directly, but forced all the guards to reposition. He sacrificed a minor route to open a hidden line behind the sleeping chambers. The final stone was placed in the center.
Venar stared at the board.
A long silence passed.
Then: "Acceptable."
Lucius allowed himself the smallest of exhales.
"You're learning what most Outer Disciples never will," Venar continued. "Victory isn't about strength. It's about control. You must become the wind in the cavern. Felt. But never seen."
He stood, gesturing toward a weapon rack near the wall. "Tonight, you take your first blade."
Lucius walked forward. There were many weapons—daggers, short swords, curved hooks. He reached instinctively for a slender blade, slightly curved, with a narrow hilt wrapped in black cloth. Balanced. Silent. Efficient.
He picked it up.
It fit. Not too heavy. Not too light. Its weight matched the pull of his instincts.
Venar nodded. "A Silent Fang. Forged by the Hollow Silence for swift, one-stroke kills. It won't help you in open battle. But in the dark… it is unmatched."
Lucius sheathed it across his back.
He had no delusions. This blade was not a trophy. It was a tool. And he would learn to use it.
Days turned into weeks.
Lucius continued his double life—meek, forgettable student by day; silent predator by night. During regular training, he let others outperform him. He allowed bruises. Missed strikes. He began to fail just enough to be overlooked by the instructors.
Riven, now firmly ahead in the public rankings, scoffed whenever they crossed paths. "Still limping behind me, huh?" he laughed during a lunch break. "You'll be a corpse before ten, Lucius."
Lucius smiled faintly. Not because he agreed—but because Riven didn't matter anymore. None of them did.
He wasn't here to climb ranks. Not yet.
He was here to survive.
And in the silence of survival, he was thriving.
One evening, Venar gave him a new mission.
"Tonight," the man said, eyes gleaming, "you're going to kill someone."
Lucius's breath slowed.
"Who?"
"A traitor. Outer Disciple named Daen. Spied on the cult. Sent messages to the Solarvan dogs."
Lucius's eyes narrowed.
The Solarvan Alliance. The so-called "righteous" faction. He had heard whispers—about how they sent spies into the Velzarim Cult, stealing techniques and secrets.
"Why me?" Lucius asked.
Venar smirked. "Because if you fail, no one will notice. And if you succeed, your silence becomes useful."
He handed Lucius a folded note. "Daen sleeps in Barrack Cell 4. He wakes briefly at the second hour of night to relieve himself. He carries a token—proof of his treason. You bring it back."
Lucius didn't respond. He simply bowed and disappeared.
He moved like a phantom.
The training in Demonic Veil Steps had rewired how he walked. He became part of the darkness. His breathing matched the wind. His heart slowed with each footstep, silent even against stone.
He waited outside the barracks. Hidden behind a pillar. Watched.
Sure enough, just as Venar said, Daen emerged from the side door—barefoot, muttering, moving toward the latrine chamber near the back.
Lucius struck.
No sound.
The blade entered Daen's back, sliding cleanly between the ribs and into the lung. The older boy gasped, tried to scream—but Lucius twisted the blade exactly as he had practiced. The cry died in Daen's throat.
He dragged the body into the shadows.
Checked the pockets.
The token was there. A small, golden medallion inscribed with the sun emblem of Solarvan.
Proof.
He wiped the blade, vanished, and returned to the hidden chamber.
Venar waited, sipping tea.
Lucius dropped the medallion on the floor.
Venar smiled. "Your first real death."
Lucius looked at his own hands. Steady. Clean. The blood was already washed.
"I feel nothing," he said honestly.
"Good," Venar whispered. "That means you're becoming one of us."
But later that night, alone in his room while the others slept, Lucius lay awake staring at the wooden ceiling.
He didn't regret it.
But something pulled at the edge of his thoughts.
Not sorrow. Not fear.
Curiosity.
Who had taught Daen to send messages? How many other spies were there? How did Solarvan convince him to betray the cult?
He didn't pity the boy.
But he wanted to understand.
Because knowledge was power—and power was survival.
And survival was everything.
A few days later, Elder Faerin announced a trial.
"All Outer Disciples, ages seven and above, are to participate in the Night Path Evaluation. Only thirty may pass. The rest… will be reassigned—or removed."
Whispers rippled through the compound. Reassignment often meant death. Or worse.
Lucius stood among the gathered disciples, eyes calm.
Venar's voice echoed in his memory.
"The cult will try to break you. That's when you strike—not with your blade, but your will."
Lucius did not tremble. He did not speak.
He was ready.
He was more than ready.
He had a blade.
And no one had seen it yet.
The trial was set for the next full moon.
Until then, everything felt tenser. Outer Disciples trained harder. Older children whispered among themselves, forming loose alliances. Some tried bribing instructors for early tips. Others began sleeping with weapons under their pillows, as if the evaluation might start in their sleep.
Lucius said nothing. Observed everything.
That night, as he met Venar for what might be their last session before the trial, the Shadow Sect master gave him a long, lingering look.
"You've made progress," he said. "But one last lesson remains."
Lucius tilted his head. "What is it?"
Venar gestured to Syrr, the violet-eyed girl who often acted as a silent assistant during their training. She stepped forward now, dropping something at Lucius's feet.
It was a bundle.
Lucius unwrapped it.
Inside lay a blood-red mask, shaped like a fox's face, its expression twisted into a half-smile. Light, but sturdy. Handcrafted.
"A mask?" he asked.
Venar stepped into the blue glow, his voice lower than usual. "You think the Shadow Sect teaches silence? No. We teach identity. Or the loss of it."
He continued, "This mask doesn't protect your face—it protects your soul. In the Night Path Evaluation, you will not be Lucius. You will be the blade. The shadow. The thing no one sees. Even yourself."
Lucius stared at the mask for a long moment, then placed it over his face.
It fit perfectly.
Like it had waited for him.
Venar turned and began to walk into the dark.
"Come," he said. "Your final rehearsal awaits."
They entered a deeper part of the Shadow tunnels—a forgotten catacomb beneath the mountain, abandoned decades ago after a failed ritual. Faint demonic inscriptions still lined the walls, half-buried in grime.
Venar led Lucius to a chamber lit with dying torches.
"There are three targets within this labyrinth," Venar said. "Each guarded by traps, illusions, and warded paths. You have one hour."
Lucius stepped forward, blade ready.
But Venar raised a hand.
"There's one more condition," he added. "This time, you're not alone. There are others… also seeking the same targets."
Lucius's grip tightened.
A competition, even now.
It wasn't a punishment.
It was preparation.
He slipped into the labyrinth like a breath. The first passage was lined with pressure tiles—barely visible. Lucius slid low to the ground, checking for patterns in dust, the shift of air through narrow cracks in the wall.
He found the first target—an effigy wearing an Outer Disciple robe—guarded by thin wires strung with spiritual bells. Stepping wrong would have sent sound echoing through the tunnels.
He didn't step wrong.
The blade entered the straw neck in silence. The effigy fell.
He left no trace.
The second target was harder. Another disciple—real, not pretend. A boy with yellow eyes and a dagger, another Shadow Sect trainee likely summoned for the same reason.
They fought in silence, no words exchanged.
Lucius had the better angle. The Demonic Veil Steps opened a path behind the boy's shoulder, and Lucius's blade whispered through the boy's tendons without striking any bone.
He left the boy alive.
But barely conscious.
He retrieved the token from the disciple's pouch and moved on.
By the time he reached the third target—another real enemy—Lucius was tired. Blood dripped from his left shoulder, grazed by a hidden dart. His breath was slower. But his eyes had grown colder.
This final enemy didn't see him coming.
They never did.
When Lucius returned to Venar, the old assassin simply poured tea and said:
"You are now more dangerous than most full sect disciples."
Lucius removed the mask, his face expressionless.
"I'm still a child."
Venar chuckled. "Then may the gods help the adults."
By the time the Night Path Evaluation arrived, Lucius was ready.
His blade was sharp.
His movements were quiet.
And his mind—sharper than either.
Not for glory.
Not for pride.
But because in this cult, to exist, you must become the thing they never see coming.
[End of Chapter 6]