Kan spent the next two days looking for a new horse. By the time he managed to strap one into the harness, the clear autumn sky had darkened into a slate gray, bringing cold rain and turning the caravan path into a mud trail.

“We’d be lucky to make it to Skyward before November in this weather,” he warned when Meizo placed another layer of sealing talismans over the crate, a new daily routine he had taken on since the incident. “I hope you have enough of those up your sleeve.”

Meizo laughed as he climbed into his seat and set the wagon going. “Won’t take long to make more. Artifacts like this are too powerful for even the strongest seals to fully contain, but a fresh batch every day will help. They’ll be in better hands once we get to the Temples.”

Kan gave him a dark look. “And me as well?”

The smile slipped from Meizo’s face.

“Whose hands would I be in once we get to the Temples?” Kan persisted. “Let’s stop pretending you hired me on this trip by chance, Master Meizo. I was already suspicious when you offered a job no one else in town was willing to take, with a sum my boss couldn’t refuse. But I wasn’t sure until we were attacked in the woods. You asked me to feel the creatures before I strike, knowing it’s beyond the power of an untrained commoner. You should’ve told me to hide—unless shamans no longer believe in protecting the defenseless, or you know precisely who I am.”

Meizo considered his words. Then he sighed. “I was told you are quite observant. Should’ve been more cautious.”

“So what do you want from me? I’ve been away from the South for too long, anything I know is old news. And I’m of no use to the Temples without … without Ichor.”

Kan clenched his fist as he bit out the last words. Almost four years and he still couldn’t come to terms with this new reality, couldn’t bring himself to admit that however skilled he might be with a sword, he no longer had the power that had set him apart from a commoner born without the gift of Ichor.

Meizo was unfazed. “If your Ichor is truly depleted, how did you sense the demons? How did you resonate with their Aura?”

His questions were so absurd that it took Kan some time to come up with an appropriate response. “Sacrilege like this would get you burned at a stake in the South, shaman. Aura belongs to the gods. I’ve had my share of divine resonation at the Shrine before, and I know what it feels like. This was nothing more than an instinct to sense danger, though enhanced by the training of conscious control.”

“Divine resonation connects to Aura from the past. This felt different to you because those demons were alive. My music spell mimicked their Aura”—Meizo tapped the flute on his belt—“that’s how it held them back, by making them think there’s another stronger existence on our side. You felt the tune calling to you, didn’t you? Was it also a reaction to danger?”

Kan raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to convince me that I haven’t lost my power? You are a Master, can you not see my Ichor is empty?”

“Empty, though replenishable.” Meizo gestured to the south. The wagon was climbing over a summit, and they could see a vague outline of the Red River through the intermittent clearings, looming in the misty rain. “The North and the South have been separated for too long. Did they ever teach you the difference between our ways?”

Kan’s silence suggested no.

“The South—your priests at the Shrine—sees Ichor as a reservoir of power. They train you how to draw from it and use it to command the elements around you. This approach gives you immense strength, helps your skills advance fast, but will only last as long as your body can regenerate. It is not unheard of for even Grand Masters to deplete their Ichor due to injuries or over-exhaustion. If you think what happened to you was cruel, imagine reaching their level before losing it all in the blink of an eye.

“The North, on the other hand, believes in cultivating Ichor in harmony with Aura. Our power is awakened by the Aura at the Temples, so we train to maintain that bond between them and use it to call the divine forces to our aid. Advancements are much slower with this approach, too slow for most shamans to be able to reach Grand Master within their lifetime. But it’s steadier, and because your Ichor is in balance with the elements around you, it will never deplete.”

Meizo paused to let the words settle. What he said was true. The Temples had long been considered the weaker counterpart to the Shrine, with fewer Grand Masters and less powerful techniques. However, if a shaman was pitched against a priest of the same level, the odds were in the shaman’s favor. Unless the priest could defeat his opponent within a few moves, his Ichor would start to drain and his attacks would become increasingly less effective.

This was not a truth the Shrine ever acknowledged to their apprentices, of course. The two regions had been separated for long enough that campaigns and exchanges between them had become history. Any knowledge of their rivals had become unnecessary and undesired. Only myths, resentments, and contempt stood in their place.

Kan was lost in his thoughts. “Under your paradigm in the North,” he finally asked, “can one still train if their Ichor is depleted?”

“If your body is still able to control and respond to the flow of it, yes. Since you sensed the Aura coming from my spell and the demons, I have every reason to believe you can start afresh at the Temples.”

A gleam of hope pulsed in Kan’s bleak vision of his future. Was this a cure? A chance to return to the life he remembered, the life where he could again feel his blood run, tempt the unknown and challenge the impossible?

Hope is a dangerous thing, Kan told himself as he took a deep breath. It didn’t come without a price, and neither did kind gestures from the North to the South. “Why would the Temples offer me such a gracious gift?”

Meizo huffed. “Don’t you want to see the Southerners’ faces when the ill-fated prodigy they disowned returns as the most powerful shaman of the Continent? We all know what you are capable of, Kan, and anything that puts the Shrine to shame works in our favor.”

Politics were never that simple. Kan knew Meizo was holding back information, but the invitation to the Temples was real. What if the Northern techniques could indeed give him a second chance?

He let his mind drift. Memories of the past he tried to bury deep rushed forward. The approval and expectation from the elders when he became the youngest apprentice to ever break through Third Stage, the admiration and gratitude from the commoners when he helped them slay beasts and secured their homes, the disgust and ridicule from everyone when he was expelled from the Shrine. The memories stabbed him like knives. If this was the opportunity to mend it all, he couldn’t simply let it slip past.

And if the Temples had other plans in store? No matter, he’d find a way out. He was never afraid.

Kan made his decision. “I will join you under one condition,” he said. “I must choose my master.”

Meizo frowned. “I suggest you train under Grand Master Saiyon, Keeper of the Temple of Dragon. He is soon to break through Ninth Stage and the most well learned on—”

“I insist.”

Meizo contemplated. “Still cautious, aren’t you?” He flashed a small smile. “Though I can’t blame you after what you’ve been through. Let’s discuss it with the Grand Master when we reach the Temples. You still have plenty of time to change your mind.”

The rain had drizzled to a brief stop, and the wagon descended steadily down the mountain road smelling of fresh dirt and crushed leaves. Kan looked up at the slate-gray sky and wondered if there was a silver lining waiting for him after all.