Jalen kept low along the rear wall of the estate, slipping through the back alleys just before the lanterns were snuffed.
That's when he saw it.
A notice, pasted half-crooked to the storage hall gates. Cheap paper. Fresh ink.
At its center: a figure draped in dark robes, rough ink slashed to suggest motion. The face was obscured—just a swirl of shadow and light, like the artist hadn't known what to draw. The lines of qi surrounding it weren't accurate—but they were close enough.
He hadn't worn a mask. But of course they'd imagined one. It's easier to fear a phantom than admit they'd missed a face.
Below it, there was writing:
Rogue cultivator sighted near the Spiritwild Verge. Wanted for theft, territorial breach, and use of unstable shard energy. Consider dangerous. Report sightings immediately.
Jalen stared at the paper, expression unreadable.
Of course this was coming.
He'd felt it in his bones the moment he fled the clearing. He hadn't just trespassed. He'd taken something they were fighting over right from under their noses. This was an insult to their prestige. A wound to their pride. And they wouldn't let it go quietly.
The city must've buzzed all day, he thought. While he was gripping stone and biting through agony, the world above was rewriting him into legend. Some thought he was a ghost cultivator. Others swore he'd come from an off-record sect. A few were probably crafting cult conspiracies already.
He didn't mind. Let them run wild.
Jalen slipped back into his residence without a sound.
The small basin in the corner still held cool water. He washed in silence, rinsing the blood and grit from his skin, untying what remained of his robes. The scent of spirit root lingered faintly—whether in memory or flesh, he couldn't tell.
He dressed in a fresh pair of linens—loose, familiar, and plain. And with a slow, steady breath, he crossed the threshold of his room and made for the one next door.
His father looked up the moment the door opened.
And without hesitation—without a word—Jayquan pulled him into a trembling embrace.
"Where have you been? I was worried."
Jalen hesitated. Then offered a crooked half-smile. "Would you believe me if I said I fell in the well while fetching water?"
Jaquan leaned back to inspect him. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm alright, Dad. How are your symptoms? Have they cleared up?"
Jaquan exhaled, still holding him by the shoulders. "If you mean the symptom of you worrying me to death—then yes. That one just passed."
Jalen's gaze softened. "It's alright, Dad. I'm here."
"Yes... and I'm glad," Jaquan murmured, voice low and rough. "Because I don't know how I'd live without you."
"You don't have to. Now go to bed—you need your rest, old man."
Jaquan chuckled, weak but warm. "Yeah, I do."
He reached out, ruffling Jalen's head—but then paused. Fingers stilled near his temple.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"What happened to your eyes?"
Jalen froze.
Then turned slightly, just enough to glance away. "After I fell into the well… I was knocked out. When I woke up, they were like this. There was some rare spirit root down there, maybe—it must've awakened my qi. See?"
He let his energy rise—subtle, faint. Early Ruby stage. Just enough to sell the story.
Jaquan's eyes widened—not with suspicion, but something deeper. Something to be proud of.
Even if it wasn't impressive by cultivation standards—Ruby was expected to be at the latest eight years old, after all—he couldn't help it. Pride bloomed anyway.
"That's... incredible. You're a cultivator."
"I guess. But please—don't tell anyone yet. I don't want all that attention."
Jaquan nodded slowly. "Alright." But he was already smiling.
Even in a clan like Hewitt, where power was expected and prodigies polished like silverware, this still meant something. His son—quiet, loyal, overlooked—had taken a step onto the path. The strange eyes, the story full of holes—none of it mattered.
Jalen had awakened.
And for the first time in years, Jaquan felt something stir that wasn't pain or regret.
Hope.
The next morning broke clear and dull. No rain, no wind. Just the weight of routine stretching across the Hewitt estate like a shawl that no one questioned.
Jalen stepped into the training pavilion before the sixth bell. The servants had already laid out the sparring mats and drawn fresh sand lines across the dueling rows. He moved among them without fuss—dusting spirit lanterns, adjusting resonance posts, and checking the chalk residue in the qi-transfer bowls. Everything had to be ready before the disciples arrived.
They came in slow clusters. Cousins. Clan hopefuls. Faces too smug for their age, mouths moving faster than their minds. Jalen kept his eyes down—until the laughter started.
"Careful with that post, cousin," one boy called. Rylen—eighteen, idle, always loud. "Might awaken your qi just holding it."
Another voice: "I think he's got rare talent. Stealth qi! Look how easily he disappears behind a mop."
Snickering.
Jalen didn't respond. He'd heard worse from better.
Then one of them—Peon, squat and arrogant—made the mistake of snatching the mop from his hand. "Come on, let's test his reflexes. Bet he learned a servant technique. Mop-Style: Ninth Sweep Heaven Art—!"
A soft voice cut through the room.
"Are you seriously mocking someone while holding a stick, Peon?"
The laughter halted like a rope had pulled it tight.
Delra Hewitt stood in the doorway, arms folded. Dagger straps along her forearms, training sash loose. Cool, precise. Her eyes landed on Peon like she was judging a wine stain on silk.
"This is the clan's training pavilion," she said. "Not a rooster coop."
Peon flushed. "We were just joking—"
"No. You were showing everyone where your cultivation stopped." Her gaze swept the others. "Back row. Warm-up drills. Now."
They scattered like smoke.
Delra turned toward Jalen. Their eyes met for half a breath longer than necessary.
She didn't say anything. Just nodded once. Then moved past him to the inner ring.
Jalen watched her go.
She hadn't looked at him with pity. Or curiosity. Just acknowledgment.
She hadn't stepped in for him. She'd stepped in because she didn't tolerate weakness masquerading as strength. Because mocking someone with a mop wasn't power.
It was noise.
He continued cleaning. Slower now. A quiet pulse threading in his chest—not awe, not ambition. Just respect. The kind that didn't need a name.