The Thorne of Destiny-Chapter 144: Newas 10

The new Mistshroud disciples trained beneath morning mist, sweat mixing with dew, breath misting in the cold. Their forms were clumsy, their strikes uneven, but for the first time in years, the sacred chants of a forgotten sect echoed through the ravine again.

Adrian watched from the ridge, arms crossed. Below, Olivia corrected the stance of a boy with burnt sleeves while Jayson argued with an older teen about footwork. Elder Laen hovered like a ghost, occasionally stepping in with a wordless correction, his gaze ever on the horizon.

It was far from perfect. But it was real.

And that was enough—for now.

Bella stepped up beside Adrian. Her spear was slung over her back, and a cloth wrapping bound her wrist. "They’re not warriors."

"Not yet," Adrian agreed.

"Some of them never will be."

"Then they’ll be what they’re meant to be." He gestured toward Olivia and Jayson. "We don’t need just swords. We need scholars, warders, alchemists. Mistshroud fell because it tried to stand tall alone. This time, we root ourselves deep."

Bella looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "You’ve changed."

"So have you."

She smiled faintly. "Good. Because what’s coming will burn away anything weak."

A shadow fell across them.

Storm landed beside Adrian, wings flexed, eyes narrowed. His gaze wasn’t on them—it was on the treeline.

Adrian turned as well.

A low hum echoed through the valley, then silence. The kind of silence that precedes calamity.

Moments later, a series of long, high whistles pierced the air—Mistshroud’s scouts.

An alarm.

Adrian’s eyes hardened. "Laen!"

The elder appeared from the lower trail almost instantly, his robes already swirling with Qi. "Southwatch ridge. Two dozen signatures. Advancing fast."

"Cultivators?"

"No. Constructs. Spirit-stitched abominations."

Bella’s expression darkened. "Dust Order."

Adrian didn’t speak. He was already moving.

—

Southwatch Ridge

The first of the constructs appeared like nightmares birthed from rotten silk and scorched bone. Limbs twisted, faces blank, strings of cursed Qi binding them together like marionettes. At their center, a cloaked figure floated above the ground, his mask shaped like a crow’s beak.

Wraith sigils marked his robe, but these weren’t assassins.

They were offerings.

Adrian arrived with Bella, Laen, and three of the strongest Mistshroud fighters. He didn’t wait.

The moment his feet touched the ridge, the Bound Star pulsed. Mist swirled upward, forming ethereal chains that latched onto the leading construct.

With a flick of his fingers, the chains tightened—and the abomination shattered like pottery, its core leaking corrupted Qi that hissed as it hit the soil.

The cloaked figure let out a clicking sound.

"You are too late, heir of the Mist."

Adrian’s voice was ice. "You’ve defiled sacred ground. Again."

"Sacred?" the masked man sneered. "This place is nothing but broken stones and fading ghosts. And ghosts... serve the living."

With that, he snapped his fingers.

A glyph etched into his chest blazed. The other constructs surged forward, bound not by will, but by something darker—soul branding.

Laen stepped forward. "Hold them!"

Dozens of formation plates activated across the ridge, glowing with Mistshroud’s sigils. Traps flared, nets of light and illusion catching the first wave.

Bella hurled her spear like a lightning bolt—it skewered one of the constructs through its core, and a second fell to Laen’s flame talisman.

Adrian leapt into the center of them all.

Each movement was fluid—mist followed in his wake, limbs weaving the art of the Bound Star. His sword glowed with pale light, carving through bone and soul both.

But more kept coming.

They weren’t meant to win.

They were meant to stall.

As Adrian cleaved through another, the masked enemy retreated—fading into shadows with a whisper.

"We are the first wave," the voice echoed. "Behind us comes the flood."

And then he was gone.

Adrian stood surrounded by broken corpses—no blood, no victory. Only warning.

He looked at Bella.

"They’re not trying to kill us. Not yet."

She nodded grimly. "They’re watching how we respond."

Laen joined them, panting slightly. "Testing our strength. Measuring our numbers."

Adrian turned his gaze toward the rising sun.

"Then we’ll give them something to measure."

—

Nightfall – Adrian’s Tent

A council had been called.

Adrian sat at the head, Bella to his right, Laen to his left. Across from them were scouts, artisans, young disciples still with bandaged hands.

"We don’t wait for the next attack," Adrian said. "We strike first."

Murmurs spread.

One of the older disciples, a woman named Reya, raised a hand. "But how? We don’t have the numbers. We don’t know where they’re coming from."

"We do," Olivia spoke from beside the curtain, unrolling a scroll. "They’re using spirit-stitched constructs. That means spirit anchors. I found three likely locations. Weak zones where they’re drawing power."

Adrian’s eyes sharpened. "How long to prepare a strike?"

Olivia looked to Laen.

"Two days," the elder replied. "One to gather, one to move. If we push."

"Then we strike in two."

He rose.

And everyone else did, too.

—

Elsewhere – Between Waking and Dream

That night, Adrian dreamt again.

But it wasn’t a nightmare.

It was her.

Aurelia stood on a ruined battlefield, her robes stained with ash, but her eyes were full of light.

"You walk my path now," she said. "But beware—our enemies are not what they seem. Even the stars may lie."

Adrian stepped forward, reaching toward her.

"You’re real," he whispered.

She smiled.

"More than you know. Find the last temple. Find the heart of the mist. There, truth awaits."

Then she faded.

And Adrian woke with a start.

The Bound Star was glowing. Not dim, but radiant—alive.

And beneath his tent, the very earth pulsed like a heartbeat.

Something ancient was awakening.

And it remembered.

Mist rolled in waves down the slopes, thicker than any morning fog, heavy with Qi. It didn’t scatter with the wind—it moved with intent, like something living. Disciples stirred in their tents. Spirit beasts howled from the forest edges and even the earth seemed to hum beneath their feet.

Adrian stood alone at the edge of the Mistshroud camp, hair damp with dew, the Bound Star glowing faintly beneath his robes. His eyes were locked on the distant cliffs beyond the trees—where the map said the Heart of the Mist temple had once stood.

But this... this wasn’t just memory or echo.

This was a summoning.

"Adrian." Elder Laen approached from behind, cloak trailing through the silver grass. "It’s started."

Adrian nodded. "She showed me again. Aurelia. She said the truth waits there."

Laen’s eyes narrowed. "Then she’s not merely a lingering soul echo. Something deeper binds her to this world."

"She’s waiting for me at the temple. The real temple." Adrian’s voice was quiet, but certain. "And we don’t have much time."

Laen glanced toward the cliffs. "I’ll prepare a team."

"No." Adrian shook his head. "This time, I go alone."

Laen stiffened. "You know what they’ll say. That you’re reckless. That it’s a trap."

Adrian turned to him, eyes like sharpened stars. "It is a trap. But it’s not for me. It’s for what I carry. For the Bound Star."

Laen hesitated. Then, slowly, he bowed.

"I’ll keep them safe while you go."

Adrian nodded once, turned, and vanished into the fog.

Deep Mistwood – Near the Forgotten Temple

Branches reached like fingers through the mist as Adrian made his way forward. The trees here were warped by Qi—old, ancient, some partially fused with stone or bone. Faint echoes of battle remained in the air—burn marks, shattered rocks, broken blades sunken into roots like offerings.

He passed the corpse of a massive beast, long desiccated, yet untouched by scavengers. Its eyes were still open. Staring.

The Bound Star pulsed harder with every step.

He was getting close.

Eventually, he emerged into a clearing.

The Heart of the Mist Temple was half-buried under vines and stone. Carved pillars reached skyward like fingers trying to hold the sky in place. Runes glowed faintly along the broken steps. And there—at the center of the ruin—stood a woman.

Aurelia.

She turned as he approached, her body translucent, her robes flowing like smoke. But her eyes were solid. Knowing. Real.

"You came."

"I had to."

She reached toward him—not to touch, but to offer.

From her palm rose a sigil. The true crest of the Mistshroud Sect. A spiraling mist around a bound star. Adrian stepped forward and touched it.

The world fell away.

Within the Memory

He stood in the past.

The temple was whole. Lit with lanterns. Alive with chanting.

Hundreds of disciples moved through the halls, each clad in robes bearing the Mistshroud sigil. Aurelia stood at the head of a ritual circle, a scroll open before her.

But the air was tense.

She turned to him—not to the Adrian watching, but to someone else.

"I’ve seen the signs. The stars weep. The empire decays from within."

An elder near her frowned. "We have no part in politics."

"You’re wrong," Aurelia said. "The Bound Star was never meant to remain hidden. It was meant to warn."

Suddenly, the air cracked. Black flames erupted through the far wall. Screams followed.