CHAPTER — Thunder Beneath the Heel
Sabre hit the ground hard.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs, his back slamming against the stone path with a dull, hollow sound. Pain exploded through his spine, sharp and disorienting, stealing his breath before he could even gasp.
Above him, lightning crackled.
Not wild.
Not refined.
Crude—but terrifying.
The brute stood over him, massive frame outlined by jagged arcs of pale-blue lightning that wrapped tightly around his arms and legs like living chains. Each spark sank into his skin instead of leaping outward, reinforcing muscle and bone, compressing raw power inward.
A method so simple it was brutal.
"So that's it?" the brute said, voice hoarse and amused. "That's the kid who thought he could play hero?"
He stepped forward.
The ground cracked beneath his foot.
Sabre rolled just in time.
The brute's heel smashed into the stone where Sabre's head had been a heartbeat earlier, lightning detonating outward on impact. Shards of rock sprayed in every direction. A few cut into Sabre's arm, drawing blood.
His ears rang.
His vision blurred.
Too fast…
Too heavy…
Sabre forced himself upright, barely managing to raise his arms before the next blow came.
A fist—coated in compressed lightning—slammed into his guard.
CRACK.
Sabre felt something give.
He was thrown backward like a rag doll, skidding across the ground until his shoulder struck a pillar. White-hot pain tore through him, and he screamed before he could stop himself.
The watching disciples recoiled.
Sil's breath caught. "Sabre—!"
"Shut up," the brute snapped without looking. "You'll get your turn."
He rolled his shoulders once, lightning surging tighter around his limbs.
"This isn't even cultivation," he continued lazily. "It's instinct. Power obeying whoever's strong enough to grab it."
He vanished.
Sabre barely registered the movement before something wrapped around his throat.
The brute had crossed the distance in an instant.
One massive hand lifted Sabre clean off the ground.
Sabre clawed at the wrist, lightning biting into his fingers, burning his skin. His legs kicked uselessly as the brute leaned closer, eyes cold and entertained.
"You feel it, don't you?" the brute said quietly. "That thing inside you. That spark."
His grip tightened.
Sabre's vision darkened at the edges.
"You don't deserve it."
He slammed Sabre into the ground again.
Once.
Twice.
Each impact sent lightning bursting outward, scorching the stone beneath Sabre's body. His bones screamed. His chest felt like it was collapsing inward.
Laughter echoed.
Some disciples turned away.
Others watched in silence.
The brute planted a lightning-wrapped boot on Sabre's chest and pressed down slowly.
Sabre screamed.
His lightning flared instinctively—weak, uncontrolled arcs snapping uselessly against the brute's leg. The brute barely felt it.
"That's it?" he mocked. "That tickles."
Sil rushed forward a step.
"Stop—!"
The brute turned his head, smiling.
"Careful, little guy. I'll collect your debt and your teeth."
Sabre's fingers twitched.
His chest burned.
That muted heartbeat—the echo—throbbed violently, begging him to move, to rise, to fight.
But his body wouldn't respond.
The brute raised his leg.
"One more hit," he said calmly, "and you won't walk again."
The air shifted.
Not violently.
Not explosively.
It simply… changed.
The lightning around the brute flickered.
A soft sound echoed across the courtyard.
A single step.
"Why don't you," a calm, melodic voice said, "pick a fight with someone your size?"
The brute froze.
Slowly—too slowly—he turned.
She stood at the edge of the path.
Tall.
Poised.
Wrapped in flowing robes the color of storm clouds just before rain.
Her beauty wasn't loud. It didn't demand attention.
It commanded it.
Every disciple present felt it instinctively—the pressure, the quiet authority, the elegance sharpened into something dangerous.
Her eyes were calm.
Too calm.
"Y-You…" the brute muttered.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Silas Vorn," she said, speaking his full name.
The brute's lightning snapped out completely.
His foot lifted from Sabre's chest immediately, as if burned.
"I—I didn't know you were here," Silas said quickly, stepping back. Sweat beaded on his brow. "I was just—disciplining an outer disciple who crossed a line."
Her gaze shifted briefly to Sabre.
For a fraction of a second, something unreadable passed through her eyes.
Then it was gone.
"Leave," she said.
Silas clenched his fists.
The silence stretched.
Then he bowed.
Deep.
"…Yes, Senior."
He turned and walked away without another word, lightning completely extinguished, shoulders tight with restrained fear.
No one laughed.
No one spoke.
The woman stepped forward.
Sabre tried to rise—and failed.
She stopped in front of him and looked down.
"You're reckless," she said softly.
Her tone wasn't cruel.
It was worse.
It was disappointed.
"But you didn't run."
She turned away.
"Get him to the infirmary," she said to no one in particular.
Then, as she walked off, her voice drifted back—quiet, deliberate.
"And Sabre…"
He forced his eyes open.
She didn't look back.
"…this won't be the last time your lightning draws blood."
The courtyard remained silent long after she was gone.
And Sabre lay there, broken, humiliated—
—but alive.
And the storm inside him had never burned hotter.