The storm of the Messenger's presence had finally passed, leaving the academy buzzing with fear and awe. But for Kael, the day was far from over.
As the last echoes of divine power faded, Academy Master Arathor gathered the victors of the Third Trial—the newly crowned Rising Stars.
His gaze swept across them, lingering briefly on Kael before turning to the others.
"You have proven yourselves," Arathor said, voice deep and resonant. "From this day until the Fourth Trial, you carry the title of Rising Star Students of Arathor Academy. That title grants you freedom within these walls—and beyond. You may move as you wish, train as you wish, and even request resources normally beyond your reach."
A ripple of excitement spread among the gathered youths. To be granted such freedom was a privilege only the most exceptional could dream of.
But then the Academy Master's gaze shifted once more, and though his voice remained calm, his words held weight.
"Freedom," he said, "is not without responsibility. The world watches you now. How you act, how you carry yourselves, will echo beyond this academy. Do not shame your names."
His eyes finally locked on Kael, and for a brief moment, a rare smile touched the Master's lips. "Especially you, Kael. The one who turned impossibility into victory."
Kael bowed deeply, suppressing the fire that rose in his chest. He would not waste this chance.
---
The Journey Home
That night, while the academy buzzed with whispers of the gods, Kael quietly left the gates. The air felt different—lighter, freer. The path ahead stretched toward his family's estate, the place where his story had first been one of ridicule and pain.
It's time, Kael thought, his fists tightening. Time to face them again.
The journey was not long; his qi-infused steps carried him swiftly through forests and plains. By dawn, the sprawling estate of the Veynar Clan loomed before him, its gates marked with the crest of one of the ten great Demi-God clans.
The guards stiffened when they saw him. Not long ago, they would have sneered, dismissing him as the "talentless branch." But now their eyes flickered with uncertainty—fear, even.
One bowed stiffly. "Young Master Kael… welcome home."
Kael said nothing, only stepped past them.
---
A Father's Welcome
The clan courtyard was alive with whispers. Servants glanced at him from the corners of their eyes, their hands trembling as they bowed. Some children of the clan pointed, murmuring his name in disbelief.
But Kael walked on, straight into the main hall.
There, seated on a dais carved of dragonwood, was his father—Lord Veynar, head of the clan. His once stern face softened into something rare: a smile.
"Kael." His father rose, descending the dais to stand before him. "My son. You've returned."
For a moment, Kael faltered. He had braced himself for coldness, for distance. Instead, he was met with warmth.
"Father," Kael said quietly.
Lord Veynar's hand clapped onto his shoulder, firm and heavy. "You have done what no one believed possible. First place in the Third Trial. Even the academy sings your name. You have brought honor to our bloodline."
Kael's lips pressed into a thin line. "Our bloodline?" he asked. "Or only yours?"
The hall fell silent. Lord Veynar's eyes flickered, but he did not deny the sting in Kael's words. Instead, he gestured to the servants. "Bring it."
Moments later, a lacquered chest was carried in and set before Kael. Its surface was carved with symbols Kael recognized instantly—symbols his mother used to etch onto wood scraps when he was a child.
"This," his father said, his voice quieter now, "belonged to your mother. Before she… passed."
Kael's breath caught. Slowly, he knelt, hands trembling as he opened the chest.
Inside lay her belongings: a faded shawl still carrying the faint scent of herbs, a jade hairpin carved with delicate flowers, and a small book of pressed petals she had collected in the garden.
Kael's eyes burned. Memories flooded—his mother's soft smile, her gentle hands brushing his hair, her voice whispering lullabies when he cried from the bullying of cousins.
"She was… a commoner," Kael whispered. "She never fit among the clan's noble wives."
Lord Veynar's jaw tightened. "She was my wife. That is all that should have mattered."
"But it didn't," Kael said bitterly. "Did it?"
---
The Truth of Her Death
His father's face darkened. He turned away briefly, then said, "The truth… is that she was hated. The other wives envied her place at my side. They mocked her blood, her origins. And when you were born—when it became clear your talent was… lacking—they turned their hatred toward you both."
Kael's fists clenched. He already knew some of this. But hearing it from his father's lips was like salt in an old wound.
Lord Veynar's next words were like daggers.
"They poisoned her."
Kael froze. His body went rigid, breath stolen from his chest.
"Yes," his father continued, voice heavy with regret. "She did not die of illness, as the clan was told. She was murdered, poisoned by jealous hands. I discovered it too late."
The world tilted around Kael. His vision blurred with fury, his qi trembling violently in his veins. "And you let them live?"
His father's eyes closed. "Politics within the clan are not so simple. To act rashly would have fractured everything. I… I was weak. I chose the clan over vengeance."
Kael's laugh was hollow, sharp. "Weak? Or complicit?"
The silence that followed was heavier than stone.
---
A Sister's Fear
As Kael stood there, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. A young woman entered—his sister, Liora Veynar, draped in silken robes. Once, she had mocked him as worthless, sneered at his "peasant blood."
Now, when her eyes met his, her face paled. She trembled, clutching her robes tighter.
"You…" she whispered. "You defeated a Tier Three? You—Kael—you're not supposed to…"
Her voice faltered under his steady gaze.
"Afraid, sister?" Kael asked, his voice quiet but sharp. "You should be."
Liora stumbled back, unable to meet his eyes.
---
A Vow
Kael turned back to his father, his hands tightening around the chest of his mother's belongings.
"I will not let her memory be buried in lies," Kael said. His voice rang through the hall, cold and resolute. "One day, I will uncover every hand that spilled her blood. And I will erase them."
Lord Veynar's expression flickered—pride, sorrow, guilt, all tangled together. "Kael…"
But Kael was already walking away, the chest clutched in his arms.
As he left the hall, whispers followed him. Some were fearful, some awestruck. The once-dismissed "talentless son" now carried the aura of destiny itself.
And deep within his chest, the Immortal Book pulsed faintly, as though approving his vow.
---
Alone With Her Memory
That night, Kael sat alone in his room. He laid his mother's belongings before him, lighting a single candle.
The shawl smelled faintly of the past, and the hairpin shimmered softly in the firelight.
"Mother," he whispered. His voice broke for the first time in years. "I don't know if you can see me… but I swear, I will bring justice for you. I will not let your death be in vain."
The Immortal Book's mark on his soul pulsed again. For a moment, Kael thought he heard a faint voice, like a whisper in the dark.
Grow. Rise. Harvest.
Kael's fists tightened. His eyes burned gold in the candlelight.
The path ahead was no longer just his. It was his mother's, too.