The path down from the ridgeline curved slowly, winding through older stone and thinner soil. Afi moved at an unhurried pace, neither hiding nor announcing herself, letting the mountain decide how much of her presence it wished to reveal.

  Ashen walked beside her, no longer clumsy. His steps were light and measured, his head lifting and turning as scents carried on the wind. The deeper red of his fur darkened further in shadow, the silver threaded through his spots flashing briefly when light struck at the right angle.

  They had been descending for most of the morning.

  By the time the land softened and the first signs of regular foot traffic appeared, Afi slowed.

  Voices carried faintly from ahead.

  She stopped at the edge of a broken slope overlooking a wide training basin carved naturally into the mountainside. Stone platforms ringed the area, scorched and cracked from years of flame practice. The basin was not part of the central grounds, but it was close enough that juniors often trained there when they wished to avoid constant oversight.

  Afi recognized the place.

  She had trained there before. Not often, but enough to know its blind spots.

  Five figures occupied the basin.

  They were sparring in loose rotation, switching partners, trading blows with controlled aggression. The sound of fists striking reinforced bodies echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by short bursts of flame.

  Afi watched without moving.

  Three of them were at late Muscle stage, bodies strong but still slightly inefficient in motion. One was early Viscera, his movements smoother, Inner Energy flowing more cleanly through his strikes.

  The fifth stood apart.

  He did not spar.

  He observed.

  He was older. Broad shouldered. Calm in a way that did not come from arrogance but certainty. Inner Energy rested around him like a second skin, dense and steady.

  Bone stage.

  Afi’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  So the rumors were true.

  This was one of the top contenders.

  She stepped forward.

  Stone shifted under her boot.

  Every head snapped toward her at once.

  The sparring stopped immediately.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Then one of the Muscle stage youths scoffed.

  “Is that a child?”

  Afi continued walking, Ashen padding silently at her side.

  The early Viscera cultivator frowned.

  “She looks familiar.”

  “She should,” another muttered. “That’s the chief’s blood. The one who vanished at the cliffs.”

  Afi stopped at the edge of the basin.

  She did not step down.

  She let them feel her first.

  Her Inner Energy was not flared. Not suppressed. It flowed naturally, like heat rising from sun warmed stone. Those with weaker control felt it immediately, pressure brushing against their skin.

  The three Muscle stage cultivators stiffened.

  The early Viscera one inhaled sharply.

  Only the Bone stage cultivator remained unmoved.

  “Interesting,” he said calmly.

  Afi’s gaze met his.

  She inclined her head slightly.

  “I’m looking for a place to train,” she said. “This one will do.”

  One of the Muscle stage youths laughed, loud and forced.

  “You think you can just take it?”

  Afi looked at him.

  Just looked.

  The laughter died.

  “You’re thirteen,” the youth said defensively. “This ground is for the selection group.”

  “Then I’m early,” Afi replied.

  Ashen sat at her side, tail flicking once.

  The early Viscera cultivator’s eyes dropped to the cub, then widened.

  “That’s a fire leopard.”

  “A cub,” another said. “What kind of idiot brings a beast here?”

  Ashen’s ears flattened.

  Heat stirred beneath Afi’s skin.

  She exhaled slowly.

  “I won’t repeat myself,” she said.

  The Bone stage cultivator finally stepped forward.

  He was tall, older than the rest by several years. His hair was tied back simply. His expression was neutral, unreadable.

  “Name,” he said.

  “Afi Novona.”

  Recognition flickered in his eyes.

  “You disappeared,” he said. “People said the mountain took you.”

  “It tried,” Afi replied.

  The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Not a smile. An acknowledgment.

  “I am Miroa,” he said. “This ground is used by those preparing for the selection. If you wish to stay, you will spar.”

  Afi nodded once.

  “Who first?”

  A murmur rippled through the group.

  One of the Muscle stage cultivators stepped forward eagerly, jaw tight, pride stung.

  “I will,” he said.

  Afi stepped down into the basin.

  She did not remove her pack. She did not stretch.

  She simply took her stance.

  The youth lunged immediately, Inner Energy flaring as he threw a heavy straight punch aimed at her chest.

  Afi shifted her weight.

  She did not retreat.

  She stepped inside his guard and turned her shoulder, letting the punch slide past. Her counter was compact and efficient, a short strike to the ribs reinforced just enough.

  The youth gasped as the air left his lungs.

  Afi followed with a low sweep.

  He hit the ground hard.

  The entire exchange lasted three breaths.

  Silence fell.

  Afi stepped back and looked at the others.

  “Next.”

  The second Muscle stage cultivator hesitated, then charged with a roar, flame blooming around his fists. His strikes were wild but powerful.

  Afi met him head on.

  She absorbed the first blow, letting it roll through her reinforced frame. Pain flared briefly, then dulled.

  She countered with a palm strike that sent him skidding backward across the stone.

  Before he could rise, she was already there.

  A downward blow ended the match.

  Two down.

  The third Muscle stage cultivator swallowed, eyes darting toward the early Viscera one.

  “I’ll do it,” the Viscera cultivator said quietly.

  They faced each other.

  This time Afi did not rush.

  They circled.

  He struck with precision, blade like edges of flame tracing his movements. Afi responded in kind, Inner Energy flowing smoothly, her footwork measured.

  Their exchange was longer.

  Harder.

  He forced her to defend. To adapt.

  Afi felt the familiar pressure build, the urge to draw flame.

  She resisted.

  She won with technique.

  A sharp elbow to the jaw. A controlled knee to the midsection. A final strike to the back of the neck that dropped him to one knee.

  He stayed there, breathing hard.

  Afi stepped back.

  Three Muscle. One Viscera.

  Gone.

  Miroa studied her intently.

  “You didn’t use flame,” he observed.

  “I didn’t need to,” Afi replied.

  A flicker of approval crossed his eyes.

  “Stay,” he said.

  No one argued.

  Afi moved to the edge of the basin and began to train.

  Forms. Strikes. Breath.

  Ashen curled nearby, watching.

  Word would spread.

  And somewhere above, elders would begin to listen.