Two months after the war, Emberfall City pulsed with rhythm once more.
Vault repairs completed. Flame towers restructured. Oath seals burned into permanence across the city's tribunal halls. The Flare Family, once fractured, now stood atop Ruona's hierarchy like a flame wrapped in steel.
The silence that followed wasn't emptiness—it was strength.
Jalen, who now at the early stage of the moon realm watched it all from the high ridge for days, arms crossed, hair caught in the wind. He saw the elders recover, the disciples resume their training, and Simon begin mentoring elite guards with pressure seals only Peak Imperial cultivators could conjure.
He didn't feel out of place.
He felt… no longer essential.
The four Hewitt cousins—Delra, Sion, Kaelin, and Tian—trained daily in coordinated flame-core synchronizations. Their footwork improved. Their qi harmonized. They joked. They grew.
They didn't need him anymore. And he hoped that never changed.
Rana returned to normalcy with quiet pride. Her mother, Jana, had awakened just days earlier—her qi fragile but recovering. Rana devoted herself to studies, techniques, meditation halls. The look in her eyes wasn't longing—it was determination.
Jalen knew she'd be emotional if he said goodbye. So he chose not to.
He packed lightly, wearing travel robes woven with wind glyphs and flame compression silk. He descended quietly, stepping through the eastern corridor just past the jade perimeter gates—his teleportation token already primed.
But someone noticed.
In the courtyard's final archway, Jana Flare stood, arms folded, aura steady.
"You ungrateful son-in-law," she said, blocking his path, voice half amused, half scolding. "Planning to leave without telling anyone?"
Jalen froze. He'd expected silence—not interception.
Jana walked closer, then rested her hand gently on his shoulder.
"If the world gets too hard… you always have a place to return to."
Jalen nodded once. "Thank you."
"And what must I tell my heartbroken daughter when you vanish into mist and fire?"
He smirked faintly. "Tell her to train harder—or I'll forget about her."
Jana stared at him.
"You little monster."
He turned away, steps soft but unwavering. Then waved once behind him.
"See you around, mother-in-law."
As he passed through the gate, a gust curled around his ankles—flame-sworn wind spinning through the glyph array as the teleportation seal ignited.
He wasn't just leaving to grow. He was leaving to preserve what he'd already won. Those who mattered—including his father—were safe, for now. His spirit sense trace gave no alarm, but it didn't promise peace. Strength had predators. And silence didn't last forever.
From a nearby rooftop, Simon and Simar watched quietly, arms folded.
Simar glanced over. "He's really leaving."
Simon exhaled. "He's the kind who leaves when he's no longer needed. That's what makes him rare."
Simar smiled. "We'll see him again."
Simon nodded once. "But next time, he'll be even stronger."
—
He arrived at the Reigned Continent after a full week of transit—only to find himself surrounded by chaos. His destination was Rage Forest, a region infamous for its warped qi and lightning-forged predators. Jalen never meant to linger; the pulse of powerful beast energy alone told him this wasn't a place for rest.
But the Origin shard had other plans.
Without warning, his Origin Shard flared. Once dormant, it surged with raw intent—snaring his qi channels, hijacking his motion. Reality split. Space peeled open like cracked slate. And Jalen dropped through.
He didn't fall through forest. He fell through dimensions.
The descent ended with impact—hard, brutal, unkind. Fractured obsidian greeted his spine, and the air tasted like compressed qi and broken starlight. He was inside a subworld. Not illusion. Not illusion magic. A pocket domain—likely formed by a Spirit Fusion cultivator or higher, now left to rot in eternal night.
His breath barely stabilized before he found himself pulled—again. The shard dragged him like a magnet toward an ancient temple, structure flickering with dark flame and gold-veined pillars. It swallowed him whole. The doors sealed behind him with a glyph that rejected touch. All exits gone.
Jalen had no choice.
He walked forward.
Flames lit the corridor as he passed—each step illuminating relics of war and glyph etchings older than any language he knew. At the end stood a vast, domed chamber. And waiting inside… was death.
A shadow serpent, early Moon Realm. Not loud. Not theatrical. It dripped silence.
Its aura pressed inward like ink flooding parchment. Jalen barely had time to brace before fangs came lunging, shadow energy coating its form like armor.
His body moved with practiced rhythm—the second technique of his Spirit wind Art Dance Like the Wind responding before thought could.
The first strike came low, a tail whip meant to shatter his footing. Jalen twisted mid-air, letting the wind carry him sideways, just enough to avoid impact.
The second came from above—fangs descending like twin daggers. He spun backward, wind qi forming a crescent arc beneath his feet, launching him into a glide.
The third was silent—shadow pressure coiling around his ribs, trying to crush him from within. He pulsed his spirit sense outward, disrupting the serpent's rhythm, and slipped through the gap like mist through reeds.
Then he countered.
He summoned the fourth form of his Spirit Wind Art—Wind Spirit Needle.
A thread-thin strike, fused with spirit sense, shot forward in a crescent arc—aimed directly at the serpent's core.
But the serpent vanished.
Not dodged—teleported, slipping through shadow like ink poured into cracks.
Jalen's needle pierced only mist.
Then the serpent reappeared—behind him.
Fangs sank deep into his shoulder. Pain flared white-hot.
Jalen didn't hesitate—he unleashed his third technique: Gust Dance, pushed to its limit. A burst of wind qi exploded outward from his core, spiraling him free from the serpent's grip.
He crashed to the ground, stumbling to one knee. Vision blurred. Breath shallow.
The poison was fast—too fast. It raced through his veins and meridians like wildfire, invading his dantian with unnatural precision.
His primary spirit core trembled. The fused shard pulsed in alarm, flickering erratically like a lantern in a storm.
He gritted his teeth. Not just from pain—but from the realization: This wasn't ordinary venom. It was crafted. Intentional. Designed to unravel cultivators from the inside out.
Then the Origin Shard intervened.
Not protectively—reactively. It absorbed the venom. Refined it into pure qi.
His qi fluctuated wildly. He staggered. But even so, he adjusted his tactics.
He used the temple's own layout against the serpent, triggering floor glyphs to create radiant flash bursts—blinding shadow mobility. He spun light around fractured pillars, forcing the beast to twist mid-air, then he baited it toward an unstable vault seal.
Final strike: He fused more than half of his remaining qi into the sixth technique of the Spirit Wind Art—Crescent Wind Collapse—funneling wind and pressure into one focused line.
It pierced the serpent's core clean. The shadow dispersed. Silence returned.
Jalen collapsed. Breath ragged. Qi threadbare. Chest heaving against broken stone.
This wasn't a skirmish. This was death, deferred.
He had never fought like this. Never bled like this—not since Emberfall City. Not for survival.
But the temple offered no reprieve.
Before he could recover, another beast emerged—slightly stronger, faster, more brutal. Its pressure echoed through the chamber like a thunder drum.
Jalen ran. Not from cowardice. From calculation. Because power means nothing when you're dead.