The investigator, a man named Silas with eyes as cold as mountain glass, stepped toward Kaelen. As he neared, he released a pulse of sensing essence—a standard probe used to gauge the threat of a prisoner.
Silas froze. His eyebrows shot upward, his calm composure fracturing for a split second. Behind him, the two guards—both seasoned veterans at the 9th Stage of Skin Tempering—exchanged a sharp, disbelieving look.
"2nd Stage?" Silas whispered, his voice cutting through the humid air of the servant's quarters. "A week ago, the records labeled you a 'Dull Root.' Empty. Hollow. And now... you have the density of a 2nd-stage cultivator? This isn't just a secret, boy. This is an impossibility."
Kaelen didn't blink. He didn't even stand up.
He simply finished the last bite of his stolen pork and looked at Silas with a flat, bored expression.
"The records must be old," Kaelen said simply.
"Seize him!" Silas barked.
The two 9th-stage guards moved like a single shadow. Even with Kaelen's new strength, the gap between a 2nd-stage and a 9th-stage was a vast ocean. They pinned his arms with the force of iron clamps and dragged him toward the Black Tower—the palace's interrogation wing.
The interrogation room was a windowless box of damp stone, lit only by a single, flickering essence-lamp. Kaelen was strapped into a chair made of heavy, enchanted oak. Across from him sat Silas, flanked by the two 9th-stage guards, their arms crossed, their auras humming with the weight of nearly completed Skin Tempering.
To them, Kaelen was still a bug, but a bug that had suddenly grown stingers.
Silas leaned forward, the light throwing long, skeletal shadows across his face. "Let's start with the basics, Kaelen. Morg says Grok followed you to the Low Path to 'settle a score.' You returned. Grok did not. Where is he?"
Kaelen: "I told the guards at the gate. Bandits. Master Grok fought them off so I could escape. He was very brave."
Silas: "Brave? Grok was a 3rd-stage bully who hated your guts. Why would he die for a 'boot-thief'?"
Kaelen: "Maybe he had a change of heart in his final moments. People do strange things when they think they're dying."
Silas: (Slamming a hand on the table) "Don't play games with me! We found the site.
There were signs of a struggle, but no bandit tracks. Just your boots and his. And we found this."
Silas pulled out a shard of blue-etched metal—the broken tip of the Prince's Refined Iron-Wrought Blade.
Silas: "This sword was a gift from the Royal House. It can cut through 5th-stage skin like paper. It was found shattered. What kind of 'bandit' breaks a Refined blade with a single strike?"
Kaelen: "A very strong one, I imagine. Or perhaps the sword was lower quality than the Prince was told. You should check with the smith."
One of the 9th-stage guards stepped forward, his fist glowing with a dull, tan light. He struck Kaelen across the jaw. The blow would have snapped a normal servant's neck, but Kaelen's 2nd-stage skin absorbed the brunt of it. He merely spat a bit of blood to the side and looked back at the guard, his eyes completely vacant.
Kaelen: "Is that all? I've had harder kicks from Grok for being five minutes late to the laundry."
Silas signaled for the guard to stop. He was beginning to realize that physical pain wouldn't work on this boy. There was something broken—or perhaps something newly forged—inside Kaelen that surpassed mere 2nd-stage resilience.
"You're very calm for a boy who is one word away from the executioner's block," Silas mused, tapping his chin. "Morg says Grok suspected you were hiding a treasure. A manual, perhaps? Or a pill cache?"
Kaelen: "Morg says a lot of things. He also says he can beat me in a fight, and yet his ribs seem to disagree."
Silas: "Let's talk about those ribs. And your skin. And your Spirit Sea. You were born a 'Dull Root.' You spent years in the soot, barely able to lift a heavy vat. Then, in the span of a few nights, you've reached the 2nd stage and developed the combat reflexes of a trained assassin."
Silas leaned in so close Kaelen could smell the bitter tea on his breath.
"There are only two ways a Dull Root starts cultivating, Kaelen. Either you found a Forbidden Elixir that burns the soul for temporary power... or someone powerful opened your path for you."
Kaelen remained silent, his "Ghost-Pulse" vibrating at a frequency so low it was almost undetectable. He was thinking of the note in the box. Your meridians were sealed by me.
Silas's eyes searched Kaelen's, looking for even a flicker of hesitation. He lowered his voice to a whisper, one that ignored the guards behind him.
"This is the last question, boy. And your life depends on the truth. If you lie, I'll let these two play with your bones until there's nothing left to bury."
Silas gripped Kaelen's chin, forcing him to look directly into the investigator's cold, analytical gaze.
"How did a piece of palace trash like you... how did you start cultivating?"
Kaelen looked at Silas. For a brief second, the nonchalant mask slipped, and a spark of the Primordial Eclipse silver light danced in his pupils.
"I didn't start," Kaelen whispered. "I was just... unsealed."