Nearly two months passed after the night beneath the pine.
Autumn settled fully over Heshan Province. The mornings sharpened, the spirit qi thinning but growing clearer, drifting through the air instead of pooling. Within Jin Clan Manor, life continued in its familiar rhythm—training at dawn, cultivation at dusk, patrols rotating without incident.
Too familiar, perhaps.
It was during this stretch of unremarkable days that the rumor arrived.
⸻
Jin Qingshan learned of it indirectly.
A sealed scroll was delivered to the elder hall first, its contents copied and distributed according to protocol. No alarms. No messengers running. Only quiet efficiency—the kind that suggested experience rather than urgency.
An injured cultivator had been sighted near the upper river.
Alive, on the move and concealing his aura.
Jin Qingshan read the report once, then set it aside.
Injured, he thought. But not careless.
That alone was enough to warrant caution.
Before he could dwell on it further, the summons arrived.
⸻
The elder hall was already occupied when Jin Qingshan entered.
Six elders sat along the stone table, their auras restrained but unmistakable. Some were old enough to have watched Jin Clan lose territory. Others were newer, recently elevated after decades of accumulation.
At the head of the table sat Jin Zhenyuan, the clan patriarch.
He did not speak as Jin Qingshan took his seat.
He did not need to.
Even with his aura suppressed, the pressure in the hall was palpable—subtle, constant, like standing at the base of a mountain. Early Foundation Establishment.
The difference between him and the elders was not dramatic.
It was absolute.
⸻
Elder Huang broke the silence first.
"An injured cultivator capable of hiding his aura while moving," he said. "Late Qi Condensation at minimum."
"Possibly Foundation Establishment," another elder added.
Murmurs followed. Controlled. Measured.
Jin Zhenyuan raised a single finger.
Silence returned instantly.
"If he were Foundation Establishment," the patriarch said calmly, "you would not be guessing."
The elders inclined their heads.
"He passed near the upper river," Jin Zhenyuan continued. "Not toward us. Not away from us. That ambiguity is the danger."
Elder Huang frowned. "Should we reinforce the formations?"
"No."
The word landed softly—and ended the discussion.
"We will remain uninteresting," Jin Zhenyuan said. "As we have for three generations."
No one argued.
They all remembered what had happened to the last Jin who had drawn attention.
⸻
The conversation shifted, inevitably, to the clan's internal strength.
"If conflict becomes unavoidable," Elder Huang said, "our younger generation—"
"They are not to be involved," Jin Zhenyuan interrupted.
"Even Jin Rui?" another elder asked. "He reached the 8th Stage Qi Condensation last winter."
"And Jin Sheng is not far behind," a third added. "Both could—"
"They are not to be involved," the patriarch repeated.
His gaze swept the table.
"Our juniors exist to inherit stability," he said. "Not to test themselves against calamity."
Jin Qingshan said nothing, though his thoughts turned briefly, unbidden, to his own son.
⸻
Jin Wushuang knew something had shifted.
He did not hear the rumor directly—not at first. Instead, he noticed changes in assignment lists. Training groups reorganized. Patrol rotations adjusted.
And, more tellingly, he noticed who was being spoken about.
Jin Rui's name came up often.
So did Jin Sheng's.
Both were older than Wushuang by several years. Both were already late-stage Qi Condensation, their progress sharp, visible, easy to measure. They received better techniques. Longer guidance sessions. Invitations to closed-door instruction.
Wushuang received none of that.
He was asked to oversee morning forms and meditation. To inspect spirit grain stores. To assist in reinforcing a section of the western wall.
Necessary but uneremarkable work.
⸻
Jin Tao noticed.
"They're talking about Rui again," he said one afternoon, irritation plain on his face. "Everyone says he might be the next elder."
Wushuang adjusted Jin Tao's stance without looking up.
"That's their concern."
"They don't talk about you like that."
"No."
"Why?"
Wushuang considered the question longer than necessary.
"Because I don't give them anything easy to talk about."
Jin Tao opened his mouth, then closed it again.
That answer felt unsatisfying—but true.
⸻
Later that evening, Jin Qingshan found Wushuang in the courtyard.
Not to summon him. Not to warn him.
Only to observe.
Wushuang's cultivation sat firmly in the middle stage of Qi Condensation. His qi was dense but restrained, his circulation precise, unhurried. No signs of forced breakthroughs. No flaring intent.
A foundation built to last.
Jin Qingshan remembered that boy on the stone slab again—the one who refused to stand until the breath felt complete.
You haven't changed, he thought. The world around you just learned to look elsewhere.
Perhaps that was safer.
Perhaps it was not.
⸻
That night, as the manor settled into stillness, Jin Wushuang stood once more near the boundary formations.
They hummed softly beneath his feet.
Beyond them, the land lay quiet.
Yet far away, something moved—injured, controlled, and dangerous enough to make even the patriarch cautious.
Wushuang exhaled deeply.
The breath settled.
4th Stage Qi Condensation.
Strong for his age but otherwise unremarkable.
For now.