The days passed in quiet discipline.
Each morning, before the courtyards stirred with gossip or rustling robes, Jaquan trained in silence under his son's guidance. Jalen never instructed aloud. He didn't need to. A pointed glance, a shift of breath, a single step ahead—and Jaquan followed. No wasted words. No wasted motion. He learned faster than he ever had in his prime.
He advanced swiftly.
Too swiftly.
He had formed a core and reached the Peak Gold realm in less than thirty days.
It startled him—not just the rise, but the ease of it. What had once felt like crawling through stone now unfolded like breath. Years of stagnation dissolved under his son's quiet tutelage.
But no one could know.
Jalen taught him how to mask it—shrouding his breakthrough behind the familiar aura of low Amethyst using the Eleventh Technique of the Spirit Thunder Art: Veil of Static Breath. A lightning-based breathing suppression method so refined it felt like slipping into borrowed skin.
The qi moved differently now. Sharper. Brighter. But cloaked in rhythm and restraint, it passed unnoticed even beneath the eyes of seasoned elders.
Then, in another month, Jaquan crossed again.
Diamond Realm—Early Stage.
He stood on a summit he'd never imagined reaching. At thirty-three, he was now counted among the strongest cultivators on the continent—a feat worthy of respect, even reverence.
But it paled beside his son.
Jalen had revealed he'd reached the peak of that same realm at just fourteen. And now, at fifteen, he stood in a class of his own—an Enlightened Realm expert. A figure whispered about in sect halls and elder councils. Almost mythical.
Finally, the time came for Jalen to leave. And though Jaquan had known this moment would come, no amount of preparation could soften it.
Jaquan looked at him too long. Said nothing at first.
Then, spirit-to-spirit: "I know you don't like this kind of thing… but let me have it anyway. Just this once."
Jalen didn't resist. For once, he allowed the sentiment. He stood still and let his father speak—not with tears, but with presence.
Jaquan told him he was proud. That the house would feel too quiet. That the path would always be here if he ever wanted to come back.
Then, just before they parted, Jalen placed a palm on his father's shoulder.
"You've done enough for me. You should live now. Find a nice woman and start a family. I always wanted some little brothers or sisters."
"Brothers? Sisters?" Jaquan blinked at that. A strange smile touched his face.
He'd never once imagined getting more children. Never imagined rebuilding.
His focus had always been Jalen. It had consumed him in the best and hardest ways.
But maybe his son was right.
It didn't have to end here.
"We'll see," he said.
Jalen nodded, then vanished from the room.
⟡
Two months. That was the time they'd agreed on. And now, it was gone.
Jaquan didn't wait for the clan to discover Jalen's absence. The next morning, he played the role of a distraught father who found a note—his son claiming he'd run away because he couldn't live up to his father's status.
Just as they had planned.
Then the summons came.
The ancestral chamber was colder than usual, despite the streaming sunlight. Jaquan stood alone, while six elders observed from their usual arc. Patriarch Ronald Hewitt sat on the high platform in layered black-and-gold robes, fingers laced before him. And beside him—silent, unreadable—stood Silver Hewitt, the family's ghost-blade. Peak Diamond. Rarely seen. Always watching.
"Jaquan," Ronald began, voice firm but measured. "It has come to my attention that your son, Jalen, is missing."
"Yes, Patriarch," Jaquan answered, voice trembling with just enough grief. It wasn't entirely an act. He missed Jalen already. "I woke this morning and found the boy gone. A runaway letter in his stead."
"Yet no one saw him leave," an elder said sharply.
Another added, "Nor has his spirit presence been detected in any perimeter formation. A novice cultivator managed to escape the territory of a top family and left no trace. That's ludicrous."
They didn't know he'd mastered a technique that let him move like silence itself—one that slipped past formation threads and spirit glyphs like dust through cracks.
Jaquan inclined his head. "He is young. Impulsive. Perhaps he went chasing glory—or running from it."
"Did he ever speak of leaving?" Ronald asked.
Jaquan held his breath. Then exhaled slowly, lips thinning into the faintest line of grief. "No. But perhaps I should have seen it coming."
A silence followed. Cold. Heavy.
Silver Hewitt's eyes narrowed slightly, reading him in a way no detection glyph could. The air shifted—just enough for Jaquan to feel the weight of unspoken suspicion. Still, no accusation came.
"Has anything unusual occurred recently?" Ronald asked. "Changes in behavior? Breakthroughs? Encounters?"
"No," Jaquan said, gaze steady. "At least not that I know of."
Ronald didn't reply immediately. Instead, he turned to Silver, who gave a subtle shake of his head—no lies detected. No contradictions.
Still, the doubt lingered in the air like smoke without fire.
"Very well," Ronald said. "You may leave. But if you remember anything—anything at all that can assist with our search for the boy—you will inform us."
"I will," Jaquan murmured.
The session ended. No punishment. No open suspicion. But as Jaquan stepped into the light beyond the chamber, he could feel Silver's eyes on his back like a blade waiting to be drawn.
They didn't believe him. But they had nothing.
So he wore the mask of a grieving father. Let it hang heavy. Let the whispers dull.
And when he returned home that night and sat by the old cedar again, he whispered to the sky:
"God be with you, my son."