Blood of the War Dragon

Chapter 7: An Unexpected Fortune

Among the third generation of the Draven family, no one stood taller than Kaelen Draven. He’d already broken through to the peak of the Eighth Layer of Inner Strength, and that kind of strength carried weight. Respect followed him wherever he went. Even Elira Draven, sharp-tongued and fearless as she was, thought twice before crossing her eldest brother.

When the others finally scattered—grumbling, dragging their feet, throwing resentful glances—Kaelen Dravenng stepped closer. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

“Seventh Brother, congratulations on condensing Inner Strength. I believe in you. With your talent, it’s only a matter of time before you return to the heights you once had.”

For the first time in years, something warm stirred in Kael Draven’s chest. Out of all his kin, Kaelen Dravenng was the only one who had never mocked him, never sneered, never treated him like a failure.

“Thank you, Big Brother,” Kael Draven said quietly. “I won’t waste this chance. I’ll work harder than ever.”

“Good.” Alaric Draven’s smile deepened, a touch of encouragement in his eyes. “And remember—Grandfather’s ‘punishment’ isn’t just punishment. The Martial Technique Pavilion holds treasures most can only dream of. Don’t squander the opportunity.”

He clapped Kael Draven on the shoulder, then turned and left without another word.

The Martial Technique Pavilion…

Even just thinking the name made Kael Draven’s pulse quicken. He’d dreamed of stepping through those doors for years. The irony was almost laughable. Once, he had been the family’s brightest genius, yet he had never set foot inside their most sacred hall of martial arts.

A decade ago, his grandfather had promised him entry only after he reached the Seventh Layer of Inner Strength. The idea was simple—focus on cultivation first, then techniques later.

But fate had other plans. His failure with the Perpetual Cycle had shattered everything. His progress had collapsed, and with it, his chance at the pavilion.

Until now.

Excitement swelled in his chest, restless and fierce. He couldn’t hold back. Without hesitation, he strode toward the pavilion.

Martial techniques were a warrior’s lifeline. A single skill could multiply strength many times over, turning a simple strike into a deadly weapon. They came in two types: acquired techniques and innate ones. Both were precious.

The pavilion was forbidden ground, off-limits to anyone without the patriarch’s blessing. Yet tonight, no one stopped him. For once, the doors opened without resistance.

Inside, shelves stretched from wall to wall, crammed with scrolls and manuals. The room wasn’t especially large, but to Kael Draven, it felt endless, brimming with possibility.

He didn’t need another cultivation method—the Nine Cycles of Samsara were more than enough. What he needed now were martial techniques.

He forgot entirely about the “punishment” of cleaning. His hands flew over the shelves, pulling down manuals one after another.

“Thunderclap Palm.”

“Whirlwind Kick.”

“Mantis Claw.”

He skimmed through them, frowning. None felt right. Choosing the wrong technique could cripple him, hold back his strength instead of enhancing it.

Was there nothing here that suited him?

Then his eyes caught on a slim manual resting squarely in the center of the third shelf.

Heart-Locking Palm.

His breath hitched. Something about it called to him.

He snatched it up and began reading. Page after page, his eyes devoured the text. His body moved unconsciously, mimicking the stances. Time slipped away unnoticed. By the time he looked up, dawn’s light was already creeping into the room.

Before leaving, he grabbed one more manual—a movement technique called Swiftwind Step.

The Next Day, Noon – Emberfall Mountain.

Kael Draven stood alone, guarding a narrow strip of road that wound through the mountainside.

Everyone believed the fugitive known as the Black Ghost would never take the main road. Too obvious. Too exposed. He’d surely stick to the side paths, where shadows offered cover.

So Kael Draven, still branded a “waste” despite his breakthrough, was dumped here. The weakest link, watching the least important post.

Not that he cared.

He lay stretched out in the grass, a straw stalk dangling from his lips, one leg crossed lazily over the other. The sun was warm, the sky clear. He hummed to himself, as if he were sunbathing on a holiday instead of guarding against a dangerous fugitive.

Then—

Rustle. Rustle.

Footsteps.

His humming stopped. His eyes opened. In a heartbeat, he rolled silently into the brush, hidden from sight.

A shadow slipped into view. A man wrapped head to toe in black, moving with the speed and silence of a predator.

The Black Ghost.

Kael Draven recognized him instantly. The wanted fugitive from Stormhold City. An Eighth Layer cultivator—deadly, cunning, relentless.

And clever. Everyone assumed he’d take the hidden paths. Instead, he did the opposite, striding boldly along the main road, betting on their assumptions.

But he hadn’t counted on Kael Draven.

As the man passed, Kael Draven struck.

His Inner Strength surged, flowing in an unbroken cycle. His palm carried the weight of a mountain. If it landed, the Black Ghost would be crippled—if not killed outright.

But the man was no novice.

He felt the shift in the air, jerked back, and slipped clear of the strike at the last moment. His counterpunch came fast and heavy, its force terrifying even delayed.

Kael Draven withdrew instantly, unwilling to take it head-on. Their first exchange ended in a draw—neither hit the other.

“Who are you? Why stand in my way?”

The voice was low, hollow, muffled by the black cloth covering his face. But there was no mistaking the menace behind it.

“Kael Draven of the Draven family,” came the cold reply. “So you’re the Black Ghost? Hah. I expected someone impressive. Instead, I find a coward too afraid to show his face.”

His words dripped with disdain. A deliberate taunt.

The Black Ghost’s eyes burned with fury. With a roar, he lunged.

The gulf between the Seventh and Eighth Layers was massive, defined by the sheer depth of Inner Strength. Normally, Kael Draven would never have risked this fight.

But this time, he had new weapons.

He unleashed the Heart-Locking Palm, strike after relentless strike, his movements weaving like a phantom around his opponent. Swiftwind Step carried him faster than the eye could follow.

Normally, killing an Eighth Layer master would have been impossible.

But this wasn’t a normal fight.

The Black Ghost had been hunted for days, his strength burned out, his wounds left to fester.

The longer the battle dragged on, the weaker he became. His punches slowed. His body shook. His breath rasped.

At last, his knees buckled. He collapsed onto the dirt, convulsed once, then went still.

Dead.

Kael Draven stared, stunned.

“Too lucky,” he muttered, half in disbelief, half in relief. He’d braced for a desperate fight, a struggle where life and death balanced on a blade’s edge. Instead, fate had handed him a victory.

A gift. An unexpected fortune.