Later that day…
The chamber was dim again, lit only by the silver lines beneath Cyril's feet. The first pulse—the one in his sternum—still glowed faintly, a steady rhythm he could now feel without thinking.
Miren circled him like a hawk watching its fledgling take wing.
"Now we move to the second pulse."
She tapped the floor behind him with her toe. A node shimmered near the base of the spine.
"This one governs stability. It's tied to your root. Your balance. Without it, your Flow is built on sand."
Cyril raised an eyebrow.
"You're telling me magic runs on good posture?"
She didn't smile.
"I'm telling you if your spine collapses under stress, so will your Flow. Sit straighter."
He shifted, straightening with a wince. The bruises from the arena still ached.
"Close your eyes. Focus just above the tailbone. The current coils there—sluggish and deep.
He did. It was harder this time. If the sternum pulse felt alive, This one was buried, slow and thick like mud. He reached for it, and it slipped away. He tried again—and felt it tremble, resisting him.
"It's heavier," he said.
"It should be. This pulse anchors the body. Forces the Flow to recognize your presence. If the first pulse lit a fire, this one plants your roots."
He gritted his teeth, pushing his awareness downward. The Flow twisted, trying to scatter, to spiral up or out—but he held it.
Held.
Grounded.
The node flared.
Not brightly. But solid. Constant.
The lines around it pulsed, and he felt something settle in his bones. His breathing slowed. His posture straightened, not by will, but by alignment.
He opened his eyes.
Miren watched—not with approval this time, but curiosity.
"You stabilized faster than I expected."
Cyril smirked.
"Maybe I'm a genius."
She raised a brow.
"Or maybe your foundation was already waiting to be unearthed."
She walked to the edge of the diagram, where the wall shimmered faintly in the lanternlight.
"That's two. The center. The spine."
Cyril stood, slowly.
"How many more?"
"Dozens. But for now, we stick to the majors."
She pointed to the next point on the diagram: the base of the skull.
"Rest up. later, we'll move to the mind."
Cyril stared at the spot.
"And what does that one do?"
Miren turned back, voice low.
"It opens the Flow to thought. To intention. It's how you stop reacting—and start controlling."
Her eyes gleamed in the lanternlight.
"But align it wrong… and it won't be just your body that burns."
Later that evening…
Cyril sat cross-legged on the diagram once more. Two pulses now thrummed steadily—sternum and spine. He could feel them like twin drums in his chest and back, keeping a rhythm no one else could hear.
Miren placed a finger at the base of his skull, just above the neck. The spot tingled where she touched him—like a key pressing against a lock.
"This is the gateway," she said.
"The hinge between instinct and control."
Cyril closed his eyes.
"The Flow here isn't loud. It's subtle. Whisper-thin. You don't chase it. You listen."
The silence stretched.
No pulsing warmth. No heavy current. Only… breath.
And then—
Flicker.
It was like hearing a thought that wasn't his. A quiet thread of current just behind his perception. When he reached for it, it scattered. When he stilled himself, it returned.
Memory surfaced.
The roar of the crowd. The sting of Flow-twinned lightning. The smell of blood on sand.
"Don't fight it,"
Miren whispered.
"Flow threads itself through mind and memory. You're not controlling it yet. Just witnessing."
More flashes.
His overdose. The sensation of LLD on his tongue. The weightlessness before his death. A woman's voice—not Miren's—saying,
It's not over.
He gasped.
The pulse flared to life at the base of his skull, sending a ripple through the entire diagram. Lines danced around him like threads of silver flame.
Miren's voice sounded distant, but steady.
"You're seeing echoes. This pulse awakens your perception of past Flow. Reflections of who you were… and hints of who you may become."
Cyril opened his eyes.
And the chamber was not the same.
Everything shimmered. The walls glistened faintly with Flow. He could see trails—afterimages—where Miren had stepped, lingering like footprints of energy.
The world wasn't brighter.
It was deeper.
"What… is this?" he whispered.
"You're perceiving through Flow-sight. You've just placed your foot into a cracked door: Current Adept."
Her brow furrowed.
He looked down at his hands. They hummed with quiet power. He didn't feel strong—but aware. Awake in a way he hadn't been since… before.
"Do you see it now?" Miren asked.
"See what?"
"The danger. The reason I hit you yesterday. The Flow doesn't wait for you to catch up. If you don't learn to wield it—"
"It'll burn me alive," he finished.
She nodded.
Cyril exhaled, slow and deep.
His mind buzzed. The visions hadn't faded completely.
As she turned to leave, her voice came softer than usual.
"Tomorrow, we'll see what you've learned."
Cyril looked up.
"How"
Miren paused at the door.
"An expedition Dren sends his most powerful cultivator-slaves on. With the power you've displayed you're now on that list."
"Fuck"
Cyril cursed.
"Don't fret….just trust me."
With that, the lanternlight dimmed behind her as the door closed.
Cyril sat alone in the glowing diagram.
The lines pulsed around him.
Alive.