The third awakening was the most jarring. There was no gentle transition, only the violent lurch of a world already in motion. One moment, the shadow of death's claws; the next, the searing heat of a desert sun and the jostle of a crowd.
Kael found himself in a bustling marketplace, a riot of colour and noise wedged between sandstone buildings. The air was thin, dry, and carried the tang of exotic spices and tanned leather. This was the Scourged Wastes, he knew instantly. He was in Oasis-Khem, one of the fortified cities that clung to life in the black and red deserts. And he was, of course, seventeen.
This time, there was no panic, no hysterical laughter. A cold, hard stone of dread settled in his gut. The pattern was undeniable. He was a stone skipping across the surface of the world, granted a brief, frantic dance in a new location before sinking into the depths, only to be thrown again.
He checked his reflection in a polished brass shield hanging at a stall. A different face, but the same Kael. Sun-darkened skin, the lean frame of a desert scavenger. He was dressed in the rough-spun robes of a nomad.
Knowledge without strength is useless, the Canopy Stalker had taught him. The Sunstone was a perfect plan for a man who could defend it. For a boy, it was bait.
Fine. He would be smarter.
His mind, a repository of three lifetimes of observation, sifted through decades of memories. Oasis-Khem. He remembered a story from a Valerian captain, a man who'd lost a fortune betting on the gladiatorial arenas here. The captain had spoken of a young slave, a pit-fighter named Joric, who would rise from obscurity to become the champion of the sands in three years, eventually earning his freedom and becoming a powerful figure in the city's underworld. Joric's rise was predicated on his discovery of a hidden spring deep beneath the arena barracks, one with Qi-infused water that subtly healed his injuries and strengthened his body over time.
This was a different kind of knowledge. Not a treasure to be grabbed, but an opportunity to be nurtured. Kael wouldn't seek wealth. He would seek proximity to power. He would find this slave, Joric, befriend him, and rise alongside him. He would be the boy's advisor, his confidant. When Joric became a kingpin, Kael would be his right hand, safe and influential.
It was a brilliant plan, built on subtlety and patience.
It took him two weeks of back-breaking work, hauling water and cleaning stables, just to get access to the lower levels of the grand arena. He found Joric exactly where the captain's story placed him: a lanky, sullen boy of fifteen, cleaning weapons in the barracks, his knuckles raw and his eyes full of a caged animal's fury.
Kael, using the wisdom of an old man, knew how to approach the boy. He didn't offer friendship; he offered utility. He noticed Joric favoured his left leg and showed him a simple stretching technique to ease the muscle strain—a trick learned from a fellow quarry worker. He used his knowledge of metallurgy, gleaned from Valerian blacksmiths, to show Joric the weakest points on a rival's shield.
Slowly, painstakingly, he earned a sliver of the boy's trust. He became "the quiet one," the boy who saw things others missed. He waited.
After three months, the time was right. He 'accidentally' discovered the loose flagstone in the barracks floor, the one leading to the hidden spring. He brought Joric to it, feigning awe. "A gift from the spirits," he whispered.
Joric's eyes lit up with a fire Kael had seen before. It was the fire of ambition. The boy began to drink from the spring in secret, and just as the story foretold, his performance in the practice bouts improved dramatically. He was stronger, faster, more resilient.
Kael's plan was working. He felt a flicker of triumph, the first he'd known. He had outsmarted his curse.
The triumph lasted until the end of the week.
He arrived at the barracks to find two men waiting for him. They were not slaves. They wore the sigil of the arena master, their bodies humming with the sharp, corrosive Qi of the Wastes. They were cultivators. Not powerful ones, but to Kael, they were gods.
"The arena master wishes to see you," one of them said, his voice devoid of warmth.
Fear, cold and familiar, returned. They dragged him not to the master's opulent box, but to a damp, lightless cell deep in the foundations.
The arena master was a corpulent man with eyes like chips of obsidian. Joric stood behind him, his head bowed, refusing to meet Kael's gaze.
"A hidden spring," the master said, his voice a low rumble. "A remarkable discovery. One that has made my prize fighter here quite valuable." He gestured lazily at Joric. "He tells me it was your idea. Your discovery."
Kael's blood ran cold. "We found it together."
The master smiled, a predator's grin. "No. He found it. A gift from the sands for his talent. A wonderful story. Your inclusion in it is... inconvenient."
Kael looked at Joric, a silent plea in his eyes. The boy flinched, then hardened. He had chosen. He had traded Kael's life for the security of his secret. It wasn't even a difficult choice. Kael was a rootless nomad, a nobody. Joric was a future champion. The master was simply trimming a loose thread.
"You see," the master continued, leaning forward, "power is not something you find or scheme your way into, boy. It is something you take. And those who have it do not share."
They left him in the darkness. He wasn't beaten or tortured. He was simply forgotten. He screamed until his throat was raw, but no one came. He hammered on the stone door until his knuckles were bloody pulp, but no one listened.
His seventeen-year-old body, deprived of food and water, failed him much faster than his seventy-year-old one had. On the sixth day, lying on the cold stone floor, his mind delirious with thirst, he heard the distant roar of the crowd. Joric must have won a major victory.
His brilliant plan, his subtle maneuvering, had amounted to nothing. He had traded a quick death by a beast for a slow death in a box. The lesson was even harsher this time. It wasn't just strength he lacked; it was inherent value. In a world defined by spiritual roots, he was a zero. And any number multiplied by zero is still zero. He could not attach himself to power. He had to be power.
As the darkness took him for the third time, a new emotion burned through the despair. Not sadness. Not fear.
It was rage.
A cold, pure, and utterly patient rage.