Back at the inn, Ramon leaned against the creaking wooden wall of his rented room, staring up at the ceiling. A small oil lamp flickered on the desk beside him, casting long shadows across the scroll he had retrieved from the burned-out hut in the Black Castle.

  His shoulder still ached slightly from his brief scuffle with Darin and the Ash Claw thugs. But there was no blood, no wounds. He’d held back just enough, played the part of a standard Muscle Refinement rogue. Hopefully, no one suspected anything more.

  He exhaled slowly, rubbing the side of his neck.

  “Soorin, huh?” he muttered, the name sour in his mouth.

  He’d never met the man, but even without a face, Soorin loomed large. According to Darin, the guy practically ran the outer district from the shadows. Ramon scratched his jaw.

  “Peak Bone Refinement, maybe. That’s the rumor,” he murmured, walking toward the window and peering through the slats. “But if he was Organ Refinement, he’d already be in the inner sect. At least… that’s what people say.”

  There was always the chance someone like Soorin could’ve hidden his advancement. Maybe had a backer in the Inner Sect or a connection to someone like Elder Lian. But that seemed unlikely. Most Inner Sect disciples had pride—they wouldn’t want some street-puppet playing king in the outer district if he wasn’t truly one of them.

  “I should be safe,” he said under his breath, tapping his fingers on the window frame. “I didn’t kill anyone. Darin and the others will probably tell him it was just a rogue with sharp reflexes. Probably spin it like they got unlucky.”

  Still, his gut twisted a little. Soorin wasn’t just another outer disciple. The man had reach. Informants, muscle, and a reputation to protect. He couldn’t ignore the possibility of retaliation.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Whatever,” he grumbled, stepping back toward the desk. “If he comes… I’ll deal with it then.”

  His eyes fell back on the scroll. The thing radiated age. The ink had faded into nearly invisible strokes, and the parchment felt like it might crumble if he breathed too hard. No language he knew—no characters from any sect manual or merchant document he’d seen.

  But despite all that… it called to him.

  “Let’s see what secrets you’ve been hiding,” Ramon muttered as he unfurled it completely.

  As he stared, the symbols shimmered faintly. Not visibly—but inside his mind. Like a ghost of comprehension that hovered just out of reach. Slowly, something shifted. The lines rearranged in his vision. At first it made no sense, but then—

  Click.

  Like a door unlocking, the meaning started to pour in—not through knowledge, but instinct.

  Ramon blinked. “What the hell…?”

  The scroll’s patterns were… teaching him. No, showing him. His body twitched slightly as a vague sensation rippled down his arm, the feeling of a thrust. A stab. A sweep. It was like his muscles were remembering moves he’d never learned.

  “Is this from the crystal?” he wondered aloud, brow furrowed. He glanced down at his chest, where the soul crystal had fused with him during his first night in the Black Castle. Ever since then, it had done absolutely nothing.

  No visions. No voices. No sudden power. Just sat there.

  “Lazy rock,” he muttered. “But I guess you’re finally earning your keep.”

  He chuckled lightly at himself. A part of him had thought the crystal was some kind of scam—maybe just a leftover fragment of whatever made the shadow beast tick. But now? This scroll wouldn’t even be readable if not for its help. He was sure of it.

  His eyes scanned the symbols again, each pass making them clearer.

  A spear technique. Fluid, sharp, full of momentum and control. It didn’t have a name—none he could read anyway—but it felt… refined. Better than the hacked-together stances from the Muscle Refinement manual he’d learned in the forest.

  “This… this is good,” he said under his breath, his voice tinged with something close to awe. “This is exactly what I need.”

  His grip tightened on the edge of the desk. He could see it already—him, sweeping through enemies with his spear like a phantom. A real technique. One born not from desperation or scraps, but from power.

  He stood, heart quickening, shoulders squared as he imagined the first move.

  “Alright,” he said, cracking his neck. “Let’s see how this goes.”

  And then he froze.

  That feeling again. A prickling at the back of his neck. The sensation of being watched.

  He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

  His breath caught.

  Someone was outside.

  Watching.