By late morning, the duels had thinned. Blood had dried. Auras faded back into breath. The Grand Stone Court, so recently alive with motion, now pulsed with the measured rhythm of curated victory.
The final rounds struck like mirrored echoes—refined, forceful, and, in many cases, entirely predictable. Cheers rose and fell like breath through hollow pipes. Disciples bowed, smirked, and withdrew. The rhythm of combat had become ceremony again.
Kaelin's final bout ended in a controlled knockout. Her stance never faltered; her opponent barely landed a blow before collapsing under a precise flare of spirit-bound pressure.
Tian followed suit—his techniques leaner, meaner. A blade-like rhythm. No wasted motion. The finishing blow wasn't elegant, but it was efficient, and it left no room for doubt.
Delra and Sion—sharp as mirrored steel—delivered a match that broke the pattern. It didn't dance. It hunted. Every step looked like instinct wrapped in strategy, two rhythms spiraling until it became impossible to tell which one was leading. Blood was drawn twice. The elders delayed their verdict longer than they had all morning, debating not power but intent. In the end, they split it by formal vote.
Even those who'd come to spectate from lesser sects now leaned forward, eyes narrowed. The air, once bright with performance, had begun to weigh with expectation. Beneath the ceremonial tone, there was an unspoken truth that crept into every bowed head and folded arm: this wasn't just tradition—it was an arms display.
Clan stewards circulated quietly, offering water and adjusting seating, never once raising their heads. Representatives from the Riverlight Sect whispered behind trimmed fans. A vassal lord from the western dunes tightened his jaw after watching Tian's technique—recognizing in the boy's footwork echoes of forms his own heir hadn't mastered.
Small things shifted. Posture. Breathe. Tension that hadn't been there before.
No one said the words aloud, but many thought them:
Formidable.
The word curled through the benches of onlookers like a scent. Even those who'd traveled far merely to "observe" now watched with marked care. The Hewitt clan hadn't just polished one shining blade this cycle. They'd drawn four. And unlike the prodigies of other families, these weren't just showpieces meant for acclaim.
They were weapons. They were warnings.
Most clans were lucky to produce one cultivator of that caliber per generation. The Hewitts had four—under sixteen.
The final ring was cleared and rubbed smooth by the elder adepts—stone wiped of all markings, as if to preserve the moment in stillness.
Then came the hush. Not the orchestrated pause of discipline, but the rare quiet that even spirit beasts recognize before thunder.
And when the family patriarch rose—broad-shouldered, robed in ink-dyed silk, voice like struck bronze—the hush deepened into silence.
His presence alone anchored the court. Lines etched at the corners of his eyes from decades of strategy, not laughter. His hands bore no rings, only the faint shimmer of binding seals—protective, ancient, and heavy with inherited promise.
He spoke without ceremony. Only clarity.
"The following names will represent the Hewitt Clan at this year's League Tournament."
No flourish. No titles. Just names.
Kaelin Hewitt. Tian Hewitt. Delra Hewitt. Sion Carros.
A beat passed. Quiet enough to feel the pause between heartbeats.
Then murmurs rose like wind stirring dry reeds—soft, crackling, and quick to multiply. A few elders exchanged slight nods. Some guests kept neutral expressions, but their aides shifted uncomfortably. One emissary from the Rain-Callers clenched his jaw.
From the vassal branches, there were no protests. Just the sound of ink brushing parchment as names were recorded—commitments to memory, to reports, to political forecasts already brewing in the minds of those who had come scouting.
Because even in the absence of defiance, everyone heard the same truth ringing beneath the patriarch's words:
The Hewitt Clan didn't just have strength. It had depth, precision, and balance.
One prodigy was an omen. Two—a surge. But four?
That was a move.
A move aimed squarely at the rest of the continent.
What had been a local tournament now stood framed in the looming shadow of the League Tournament to come. And every clan not named Hewitt suddenly had a reason to go home sharpened, watchful, and—for the first time in years—slightly uneasy.
By midday, the banners were rolled. Incense doused. The Grand Stone Court fell still.
Representatives from the Nine Families, the independent sects, and the allied vassal branches each offered thanks to the patriarch. Bows were exchanged. Oaths are refreshed in gesture if not in word.
Then—one by one—they slipped down the mountain roads to report what they'd seen.
Jalen, from where he stood beneath the servants' arch, watched them go. Watched as the whispers of war and legacy flowed down into the world, all seeded in polished stone and silence.
And he returned to his duties like nothing had changed.
The servant's quarters were quiet at dusk, lit only by the flicker of low lanterns and the sharp scent of dried mandarin peel steeping in tonic bowls. Evening shadows crawled up the walls, softened by the warmth of broth simmering on clay stoves and the hush of footfalls padded by duty.
Jalen knelt beside his father's cot, gently mixing the crushed root paste with two drops of lotus sap. His father's breath came slow but steady—eyes half-lidded, a cloth pressed lightly to his lips.
The stain was faint. But not faint enough.
Jaquan lowered the cloth. "It's not as bad as it looks."
Jalen didn't argue. He only handed him the bowl, steady as stone. "Drink while it's warm. The lotus helps ease the symptoms from the dantian fissures. Mandarin keeps the waste qi from settling in your organs."
It wouldn't mend the damage. But it dulled the ache. Slowed the decline.
Jaquan's fingers trembled as he took the mixture—stronger than yesterday, weaker than before. His once-callused hands, now thinned by time and spirit collapse, still bore the ghosts of forms etched into muscle.
"You don't need to worry about me, son," he said, voice low but trying for calm. "This flare will pass. It always does."
"It won't if you keep pushing yourself so hard," Jalen said, rinsing the pestle in silence.
"I'm not," Jaquan replied—too quickly.
Jalen glanced up, pausing. "Your condition says otherwise."
Jaquan met his eyes—and this time, the silence between them was softer. Less of a barrier. More of a bridge.
"Alright. You can leave me be now," Jaquan said, leaning back into the cot. "Don't waste your time looking after a shattered old man."
"I don't mind," Jalen murmured. "It's the least I can do. Now please—drink up and rest after."
Jaquan huffed a tired breath, not quite laughter. "Oh? Who's the parent now?"
Jalen adjusted the blanket over his legs. "Clearly the one who's not being childish."
Jaquan smiled faintly. "Thank you, son."
Jalen didn't answer. He just lifted the bowl and held it steady while his father drank—slowly, carefully, until the last drop was gone.
When Jaquan's breathing began to even out, his eyes drifting shut beneath the weight of exhaustion and medicine, Jalen sat in silence a moment longer. Watching. Listening.
Only when he was sure his father had fallen asleep did he rise, fold the cloth, and step lightly toward the door.
He didn't snuff the lantern. He left it burning low—just enough to keep the shadows gentle.
Then he slipped out into the corridor and vanished beneath the rising mist curling along the clan perimeter.
Tonight, he'd try again. Not just for himself. But for the man whose breath was starting to cost him more than silence.