I was in the middle of recalibrating a long‑range scrying array when the vision snapped into focus.
Red smoke bloomed across the surface of the spell like spilled blood in water, then peeled back in slow spirals. My breath stilled.
The First Spinjitzu Master.
No—more than that.
He stood within his domain, older, heavier with responsibility, yet unmistakably triumphant. And there, beside him, wrapped in the quiet weight of destiny I could almost taste through the spell… were his children.
Wu and Garmadon.
So. It had finally happened.
I leaned back slightly, letting the scrying image stabilize while my thoughts raced. This moment—this singular branching point—had been inevitable, but seeing it unfold still carried a strange gravity. These two would one day shape the fate of Ninjago itself. Light and darkness. Balance and excess. Order and rebellion.
Children, now.
Weapons, later.
I had no intention of interfering directly. Not yet. But observation alone was no longer sufficient. Influence requires proximity, even if that proximity is indirect.
Fortunately, I had prepared for decades for moments exactly like this.
I turned my attention away from the scrying mirror and toward my worktable. Stone fragments lay arranged with meticulous care—each one carved by my own hands over the years. Stone carving had become something of a meditative discipline for me. It was not merely art; it was preparation. Every groove, every joint, every microscopic rune channel was placed with purpose.
Stone is honest. It remembers what it is shaped to be.
With a subtle pulse of magic, I animated the first construct.
A spider no larger than my palm unfolded itself silently, eight limbs clicking softly as they tested movement. Then another. And another. A small swarm—unremarkable at a glance, yet layered with spells so densely interwoven that even I had to admire the craftsmanship.
Remote perception. Remote control. Self‑disintegration. Aura masking. Memory burn.
And one final enchantment, buried deep enough that even a master of creation would not sense it unless actively searching.
I returned to the scrying spell and pushed.
The spiders slipped through the veil, reality folding around them as they emerged near the First Spinjitzu Master's home. I rode along with them, not physically, but through perception—seeing through dozens of tiny stone eyes at once.
Wu and Garmadon were training in the courtyard.
So young. Their movements were clumsy, unrefined, but unmistakably powerful. Even now, their elemental potential leaked into the air like heat shimmer. The First Spinjitzu Master was not present—thankfully. His attention was elsewhere, likely occupied with matters of balance and governance.
This was the window.
The spiders skittered forward, hugging stone and shadow, climbing the outer wall with ease. I guided them carefully, threading between cracks in perception, suppressing intent. To the world, they were nothing more than animated debris.
The moment one spider crossed the threshold of the courtyard, I gave the command.
Engage.
The construct leapt.
Wu reacted instantly—faster than expected. A sharp movement, a flash of instinct, and the spider was struck aside, smashing against the stone floor. Garmadon followed a heartbeat later, striking another spider with raw, uncontrolled force that sent fragments scattering.
Good.
Very good.
I allowed the remaining spiders to fail.
They lunged, missed, were struck, crushed, obliterated. Each one crumbled into fine dust upon destruction, exactly as designed. No residue. No lingering magic. No evidence.
But in the instant before each spider broke apart, the buried spell triggered.
A thread reached out.
Not a violent siphon. Not theft. A sampling.
I felt it immediately.
A faint tug at my core as fragments of elemental essence—pure, nascent, unrefined—were drawn away and sealed within distant anchors. Not absorbed yet. Simply stored. Preserved. Waiting.
Wu staggered slightly, blinking in confusion.
Garmadon frowned, flexing his fingers as if something felt… off.
They would dismiss it. Children always do.
I withdrew at once, severing the connection, pulling my perception back through the scrying veil. The courtyard vanished, replaced by the familiar darkness of my sanctum. I dispelled the spell entirely, leaving no trail to follow.
I sat there for a long moment, silent.
What I had taken was insignificant. Less than a breath of their total potential. Not enough to be noticed, not enough to alter their growth. But it was theirs. A resonance. A signature. A key.
And keys open doors.
The First Spinjitzu Master still believes the future is something he can prepare for through guidance and balance alone. The Overlord believes it can be seized through domination and inevitability.
Both are wrong.
The future is shaped by accumulation. By small, unnoticed actions taken at precisely the right moments.
I have waited eighty‑seven years.
I can wait longer.
But now, at last, the next era has begun.
And I am already woven into it.