⚔️ **CHAPTER 63 — The Council Strikes**
The sun had barely risen, but the forest was alive with tension. Every rustle, every whisper of wind carried threat.
Kael's body ached—muscles screaming from yesterday's escape—but Centering kept him upright. Not invincible. Not flawless. Just *steady enough*.
Veyrath had slowed them deliberately, forcing them through uneven terrain, broken paths, and shallow streams. He wanted Kael's balance tested under fatigue, hunger, and pressure.
It worked.
"They're not observing anymore," Mireya said, voice tight. "They're attacking directly."
Before anyone could respond, a shadow detached itself from the trees.
Three figures. Tall, imposing. Armor black as night, edged with faint silver sigils that shimmered unnaturally. Their faces were hidden beneath helms shaped like masks of cruelty.
The named Council generals had arrived:
* **General Rhayel**, the "Whispering Blade," known for attacks that disoriented enemies before they even struck.
* **General Soryn**, "The Mindbreaker," who could probe thoughts and twist perception almost invisibly.
* **General Tavric**, "The Iron Hand," who manipulated terrain and objects around foes to lethal effect.
Kael felt the pressure hit immediately—mental interference layered over physical danger. Hunger and exhaustion made him sway. His legs felt heavy, his hands numb.
Centering activated.
Not perfectly. Not enough to resist all. But enough to **thread body and mind together**. He staggered slightly, breathing unevenly, but kept focus.
Rhayel lunged. Kael sidestepped. The blade cut air, close enough to feel the rush.
Soryn reached mentally, tugging at memories—failures, Lysa's death, doubts he had buried. Kael stumbled mentally, but Centering tethered him. He let the memories exist without reacting immediately.
Tavric slammed a fallen tree trunk toward him. Kael twisted mid-step, using the log to vault past it rather than resist head-on.
Caelin intercepted Rhayel, sword flashing. Mireya blocked Tavric's next strike, shield ringing. Tomas darted forward, throwing knives to distract Soryn's focus.
Kael's breathing was ragged. Sweat soaked his clothes. Pain screamed from every joint. But Centering held him upright.
Not fast. Not flawless. Just **alive and thinking**.
The generals adjusted. They had expected Kael to crumble under pressure. They hadn't expected him to **use his desperation to calculate his next steps**.
Kael made a choice—a small, risky one.
He feigned weakness, faltering as if Centering had failed. The generals converged.
Then he moved deliberately, shifting momentum and body weight. Rhayel stumbled over the angle. Tavric misjudged the timing. Soryn's mental push met a calm tethering point he hadn't anticipated.
For a brief moment, Kael felt control—not dominance, just **a fragile balance** in chaos.
Veyrath observed silently, nodding faintly. "Good. Average, but effective."
Caelin exhaled, gripping his sword tighter. "They're not going to stop."
Kael wiped blood from a scratch along his forehead, eyes scanning the generals. "I know. And neither can we."
The forest trembled slightly as the Council's force pressed forward. The ambush was just beginning.
And Kael, hungry, exhausted, and desperate, realized: **his new skill wouldn't make him unbeatable—it would make him *harder to kill*, but every mistake now carried a price.**
He wasn't invincible. He wasn't strong.
But for the first time, he knew exactly how far he could **push without breaking completely**.
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