The week that followed the interrogation was a blurred montage of soot, searing heat, and the rhythmic clanging of the Royal Furnaces. True to Lira's spiteful command, Kaelen had been assigned to the "Hell-Vents"—the deepest chambers of the palace where the fires never died. For a normal 2nd-stage cultivator, the heat alone would have blistered the lungs. For a servant, it was a delayed death sentence.
But Kaelen was no longer a servant, and he was far from a normal cultivator.
As he shoveled coal into the white-hot maws of the furnaces, he used the extreme environment as a secondary forge. He didn't just endure the heat; he inhaled it. Through the Primordial Eclipse technique, he filtered the thermal energy, using the pressure of the subterranean chambers to temper his skin further.
By the end of the seventh night, the transformation was complete.
Kaelen sat in the corner of the furnace room, his skin glowing with a faint, metallic silver hue before it faded into a deceptively soft tan. He had reached the 4th Stage of Skin Tempering.
In the hierarchy of the path, the 4th stage was the "Middle Threshold." The power gap between the 3rd and 4th stages was a vast, jagged canyon compared to the minor increments of the earlier levels. At the 3rd stage, one's skin was like thick leather or seasoned wood; at the 4th, it was a biological miracle. If Kaelen were on the Earth—a lead bullet fired from a handgun would likely flatten against his chest, leaving nothing but a smudge of grey lead and an unblemished surface.
His muscles were no longer just strong; they were dense, high-tension cables. His senses had expanded to the point where he could hear the heartbeat of the guards thirty paces above him. He felt a sense of solidity that made him feel as though he were carved from the mountain itself.
On the morning of the eighth day, while Kaelen was hauling a massive iron crate of slag, a heavy shadow fell across the soot-stained floor.
It wasn't a servant or an overseer. Standing before him was a man in polished bronze greaves and a chestplate bearing the crest of the City Military. He was a lower-ranking commander in city military, his 6th-stage aura vibrating with a disciplined, sharp edge.
The commander didn't sneer. He didn't mock. He looked at Kaelen with the clinical gaze of a man assessing a weapon. In the Palace of Aethelgard, cultivators were a resource too precious to waste on manual labor. Even a 1st-stage cultivator was usually promoted to the City Guard or the Border Patrol. Kaelen, having displayed 2nd-stage strength during his interrogation and surviving the Hell-Vents, had finally triggered the mechanical bureaucracy of the empire.
"Kaelen," the commander barked. It wasn't a question.
"I am," Kaelen replied, setting the crate down without a hint of strain.
The commander produced a thick parchment, folded and sealed with heavy red wax. The imprint was unmistakable: the City Military Seal, a crossed sword and shield over a rising sun. He tossed the letter at Kaelen's feet.
"You've been recruited on a temporary basis. The army has a shortage of 'scouts' with resilient constitutions. You report to the North Barracks in two days to receive your station. You will shift to the military quarters immediately after."
The commander turned to leave, but paused, looking back at the boy who was barely sixteen. "In two weeks, you went from a 'Dull Root' to a 2nd-stage freak. The Prince's Office is watching you, boy. Some call it a miracle. Others call it an abnormality that needs to be... corrected. Don't be late."
Back in the silence of his cell, Kaelen broke the seal.
The letter was brief and cold. It confirmed his enlistment and his new rank as a Trainee Vanguard. In truth, his advancement was "abnormal among the abnormal." No one in the history of the servant wing had jumped four stages in a fortnight. To the military, he was a curiosity; to the Royals, he was a potential threat that needed to be brought into the light where he could be controlled.
He packed his few belongings: the box, the hidden dagger, and the manuals. He felt no nostalgia for the stone walls that had been his cage. He was moving from one cage to a larger one, but in the army, he would have access to something the servants never did: Real Combat.
Two days later, Kaelen walked toward the Military Sector, a sprawling fortress-within-a-fortress located on the northern ridge of the palace. The transition was stark. The air here didn't smell of soot; it smelled of oiled steel, horse sweat, and the sharp tang of high-stage essence.
As he crossed the stone bridge leading to the barracks, a group of young men in fine linen tunics and leather armor blocked his path. They were "Elites"—sons of minor nobles and wealthy merchants who had bought or earned their way into the military.
The leader of the group, a teenager with a narrow face and a silver-hilted saber, stepped forward. His aura was a confident, albeit shallow, 3rd Stage of Skin Tempering.
"Hold it, soot-rat," the boy sneered, his friends chuckling behind him. "The servant's entrance is two miles down the cliff. This is the Military Sector. Only those with 'Roots' are allowed to breathe this air."
Kaelen didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. He walked directly toward the boy, his eyes fixed on the barracks gate.
"I'm here to report for duty," Kaelen said, his voice as steady as a drumbeat.
The boy laughed, a shrill, arrogant sound. "Duty? Cleaning the latrines, perhaps? Or maybe you're the new target for the archery range? Look at you—you still smell like the furnaces. A 3rd-stage elite like me shouldn't even be—"
Before the boy could finish his insult, Kaelen moved.
It wasn't a strike. It was a simple, forward step. But Kaelen allowed a microscopic fraction of his 4th-stage density to flare. The ground beneath his foot cracked, and a wave of pure, silver pressure slammed into the arrogant teenager.
The boy's 3rd-stage aura shattered like glass. He gasped, the air forced from his lungs as if a giant had stepped on his chest. He stumbled back, his silver-hilted saber clattering to the stones, his face turning a sickly shade of grey.
Kaelen walked past him, his shoulder brushing against the boy's, sending him spinning into the dirt.
"The air is the same everywhere," Kaelen said softly, without looking back. "It just tastes different when you're on your knees."
As Kaelen entered the barracks courtyard, he could hear the hushed whispers of the surrounding soldiers who had witnessed the exchange.
"Did you see that? He didn't even lift a finger and young Caius nearly fainted..."
"Hush! Do you know who that is? That's Caius, the nephew of General Varick."
Kaelen's ears picked up the details instantly. Caius wasn't just a random elite; his uncle was the Second General of the Army, a man whose authority was second only to the Head General himself. More importantly, Varick was a 2nd-Stage Muscle Forging Expert.
The gap between Skin Tempering and Muscle Forging was the difference between a stone wall and a living mountain. Muscle Forging was the "Second Great Realm," where the essence moved from the exterior to the interior, turning the very fibers of the body into something beyond human.
Kaelen felt a cold thrill run down his spine. He had just publicly humiliated the kin of a 2nd-Stage Muscle Forging master.
He walked toward the recruitment desk, the eyes of the entire courtyard fixed on his back. He had entered the army to find a place to grow, but he had managed to create an enemy out of the military elite before he had even signed his name.
Good, Kaelen thought, a grim smile touching his lips as he handed his recruitment letter to the stunned clerk. A sword is only sharpened on the hardest stone