The sky over the Flare estate bled pale blue, heat not yet cresting, the wind light with cinder and cedar.
Jalen stepped through the outer ward, hands in his sleeves, expression unreadable. He moved like a whisper in a world too loud.
He didn't get far before Rana appeared around the corner—back straight, robe neat, hair tied high and simple. She paused mid-step.
"You're up early," she said, almost suspicious.
"I'm looking for the library," he replied, as if that explained everything.
Rana blinked. "Again? What is it with you and libraries?"
He didn't answer. She didn't wait.
"Fine," she sighed. "Follow me."
They barely made it three paces before noise swelled to their right. Laughter, raised voices, and the clatter of gossip weaving through polished stone.
A knot of disciples stood beneath an arc of flame wood trees, half in shade, half in performance. And from the center of that tangle stepped Troy Cantrell—broad-shouldered, flame sigil crisp on his collar, smirk already drawn like a blade.
He fell into step in front of them, cutting off their path.
"You."
Jalen paused. Didn't blink.
Troy looked him up and down. "You've got a lot of people talking. Saving our little lady here. Staying in our estate. Walking around like... well, like you belong."
Jalen said nothing. The silence stretched.
"So let's test that," Troy said. "Duel me."
Jalen looked past him. "No."
Snickers echoed from the crowd. Some gasped. Others leaned in, hungry.
Troy's face twisted. "Coward."
Still, Jalen didn't bite.
Rana folded her arms. "Troy. Leave it."
But Troy pushed forward. "Are you even a man? Or just some stray mutt hoping someone feeds him a name?"
Jalen turned to Rana, calm as glass. "Are you going to lead the way?"
The indifference hit harder than a slap.
Troy's qi flared. Heat rippled off him as burning energy lit across his arms. He stood at the late stage of Sapphire Realm—young, practiced, and fueled by pride.
Rana stepped between them before he could move.
"You don't want this fight," she said quietly.
Troy scoffed. Postured.
But Rana's jaw tightened. He can't even beat me, she thought. And I can't touch Jalen.
She met Troy's eyes. "Scram."
He stood frozen. The crowd had gone still.
Then, face reddening, he clenched his fists so hard the nails bit flesh. After a breathless pause, he turned sharply and stalked off—burning with humiliation.
Jalen didn't watch him go. He simply resumed walking, steps unhurried.
"You really don't care, do you?" Rana muttered beside him.
"I don't waste time on noise," Jalen replied.
High above, behind a lattice of crimson-glass, Jana Flare watched the exchange unfold.
She smiled faintly, intrigued. Not a ripple. Not even a flicker. Is he really just a boy… or something older wearing a child's skin?
The Flare Library wasn't just a building—it was a monument. Carved into black jade cliffs and sealed with flame-woven sigils, it held centuries of curated texts, many inscribed by cultivators long since turned to dust.
Thanks to Rana, Jalen had unrestricted access.
He didn't waste it.
For hours he moved between shelves like a ghost of purpose, pulling tomes, unraveling scrolls, and absorbing more with each breath than most could in a month. He studied diagrams of meridian remapping, tales of body refinement gone wrong, and maps etched with blood wars and shifting borders.
He'd known of the Star, Moon, and Imperial Realms. But now he uncovered more—realms whispered about in sect legends but detailed here with terrifying clarity:
Spirit Fusion Realm, where soul and essence began to merge and unravel. Immortal Realm, where time slowed to a crawl and missteps could end millennia of effort. Sage Realm, where the physical body becomes completely spiritual and a single flick of the finger could destroy a continent. And beyond that, the elusive Limitless Sky Realm—the peak so high that even ancient cultivators called it unreachable
Each realm held three minor stages, and each breakthrough demanded not just spiritual energy, but pain, chance, and sometimes madness. The transformations shredded the body from within—bones reforming, meridians fracturing and rebuilding, and qi pools collapsing before expanding again. Death was not a risk. It was a companion.
He read of cultivators who went mad on the cusp of advancement. Others vanished entirely, swallowed by the weight of their ambition.
He also skimmed medicinal texts—how herbs aligned with elemental qi, how meridian blockages could be pierced with qi-needle precision, how certain formations could simulate breakthroughs… for a cost. He absorbed geography, clan histories, and regional lore. He didn't care much for it. But he never ignored knowledge. Even the dustiest facts could become weapons when wielded well.
When he finally closed the last scroll, the moon had already risen.
But Jalen didn't return to his quarters.
Instead, he slipped past the outer wards of the Flare estate, moving like mist through the gaps between formations with techniques from his spirit wind art breath like dust and Dance Like the wind. He didn't look back.
He was heading for the Kanto Ridge.
According to the text he'd read earlier, it was a place every sect and family warned their disciples to avoid. Even Imperial Realm cultivators were said to approach it with caution—if at all.
The qi there wasn't just dense. It was pure. Untamed. Alive.
And if one wasn't strong enough, it didn't nourish—it corroded. It devoured.
The Kanto Ridge wasn't just dangerous. It was the graveyard of breakthroughs. Many entered. None returned whole.
But none of that dissuaded Jalen.
He needed to break through—to push into the next sub-stage of the Enlightened Realm. And he believed, with absolute clarity, that this was the only place with qi potent enough to make it possible.
Even if it meant risking everything.