The eastern courtyard still shimmered with the heat of morning drills when Jalen stepped beneath the archway. The crowd of juniors had long since scattered, their laughter trailing like dust behind them.
Jaquan waited just beyond the training bounds, near the crooked tree that overlooked the drill grounds. His presence wasn't casual—it was deliberate. He'd waited for his son's lesson to end.
They spoke for a few minutes beneath the shade of the courtyard tree. Not loudly. Not long. Just enough for Jalen to hear the full shape of his father's return—for the hundredth time that day. The joy. The awe. The quiet disbelief.
Jalen said little in return. But the quiet beneath his features softened.
He was glad.
He listened, not because he needed to hear it again, but because his father needed to say it. Every word was a thread being rewoven—into pride, into presence, into the man Jaquan used to be. And Jalen, for all his silence, felt something settle in his chest that hadn't been there in years.
Together, they walked home.
⟡
That night, long after the lamps had burned low, Jalen stirred from his mat and crossed the room in silence. Jaquan was deep in sleep, undisturbed.
Jalen used his spirit sense to enter his father's spirit sea, moving with care through the familiar contours of spirit and memory. The space was warm and familiar—like walking through a home he hadn't visited in years. He passed flickers of memory: a younger Jaquan sparring in the rain, a quiet evening with a woman Jalen had never met, and the echo of a laugh that didn't belong to him.
He didn't linger.
There, at the center of his father's spirit sea, Jalen planted a cultivation method he had developed but never practiced himself—Spirit Thunder, tuned to rhythm, resilience, and the quiet violence of control.
He had crafted it a few years ago, knowing he could never use it. A cultivator could only form one elemental core, and his path had already been sealed by wind. But Jaquan's cultivation had collapsed before his core could form. Now, with his dantian restored, he had a rare chance to begin again.
Jalen didn't just offer knowledge. He made a decision. His father would start from scratch—not with the Hewitt family's fractured legacy, but with a new path. His raw qi would be reshaped, refined, and transformed into thunder qi.
Jalen wove the method in gently, not as a foreign intrusion, but as an echo—something Jaquan's spirit would recognize as its own. Not a gift. Not a revelation. Just knowledge remembered, now awakened.
Then Jalen withdrew, careful not to leave a ripple behind, and returned to his mat—not to sleep, but to meditate. Sleep was no longer necessary.
⟡
In the weeks that followed, Jalen didn't sneak out to cultivate anymore. The chamber at the glade had become unusable—scorched from his recent breakthrough, its formations fractured, and the land compromised. And with his current realm, the qi on this continent could no longer support his growth. He had reached the limit of what this land could offer—and every step forward now would demand a foundation this territory couldn't provide.
Beyond that, they were being watched.
With his so-called late awakening and Jaquan's miraculous recovery, suspicion bloomed behind every polite nod and quiet turn. Their every move was being tracked.
He didn't mind.
He remained where they could see him. Practiced drills beside younger students. Repaired worn training gear. Kept his presence humble, unremarkable, and slow.
But he noticed the changes. The steward who lingered too long while delivering supplies. The junior disciple who asked about his training history with too much interest. The incense burner in their quarters that had been shifted slightly—just enough to suggest someone had searched the room.
Let them watch.
⟡
Soon after, the father and son were moved—taken from the servant quarters and placed in the Fourth Branch wing. A new residence. A new title. An old trick wrapped in ceremony.
The announcement came with smiles and shallow bows. The Fourth Branch head welcomed them with a speech about "restored honor" and "family unity," but his eyes never quite met theirs.
Their new neighbors did not hide their displeasure. Supplies arrived late. Rations thinned. Jaquan's gear was tampered with more than once, though never blatantly. A cracked training blade. A robe soaked in dye. A meditation mat that reeked faintly of sour herbs.
They responded in kind—by refusing to yield.
⟡
One evening, Jalen returned to find his father seated in meditation, the air around him humming faintly with spirit resonance. He didn't interrupt. He simply watched.
Jaquan's breath was steady, his posture firm. Electricity flickered beneath his skin—not wild, but rhythmic. Controlled. His dantian pulsed with thunder qi once, then again, and then—
A shift.
The breakthrough came not with a roar, but with a quiet surge. A ripple of qi that passed through the room like a heartbeat.
Jalen stepped forward, voice calm. "Congratulations on your breakthrough, Father."
Jaquan opened his eyes slowly, his aura still humming with the quiet strength of early-stage Amethyst. "Thank you," he said, voice low with wonder. "And you? How's your progress coming along?"
Jalen gave a small shrug. "Unfortunately, not as fast as yours. I'm still at the early stage."
Jaquan chuckled, the sound light but sincere. "Just keep at it, son. I'm sure you'll improve soon."
Jalen nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. "Maybe. We'll see."
The clan noticed Jaquan's swift growth. Then the summons came again. First, the Fourth Branch head. Then the central family elders. More thorough scans. More polite interrogations about his unfamiliar cultivation method, buried in congratulations. Deeper probes, searching for residue, for foreign qi strands, for anything that didn't belong.
They found nothing.
Jalen had made sure of it.