The desert stretched endlessly, a sun-bleached sea of shifting dunes and wind-scoured stone. The sky above was the color of scorched brass, pulsing with heat and silence. Into this barren realm, Jalen arrived—footsteps light, aura sheathed, his spirit presence nothing more than a whisper on the wind. Hanging over his shoulder, pulling his hair, was little Jael, his tiny frame rippling with subdued power.
As they stepped into the basin between the dunes, Jalen's gaze sharpened, and something stirred.
He paused, the wind brushing his robes like fingertips over silk. He sensed four presences heading in his direction. And one of them, though the aura had changed a little in terms of cultivation realm and weakened, carried a signature he hadn't felt in centuries if he's counting time in the shadow realm, but in the real world, it's been way over a year, almost two.
Jalen barely had time to confirm the identity before the figure burst into view.
Sion Carros, seventeen now, descended in ragged flight from a streak of thunder. His bronze skin was streaked in dried blood and fresh wounds. His loose braids tangled with sand and sweat. Cradled in one arm, pressed tightly against his chest, was a newborn—its spirit nearly inert, qi barely flickering like a candle guttering in rain.
He was Early Star Realm—barely ascended, his aura unstable, his strength stretched thin. Against one, he might've stood a chance. Against three Peak cultivators? He was surviving on will alone.
Sion didn't scream as he dropped. He didn't beg. He only flew harder, shielding the child against his chest as streaks of lightning carved through the sky behind him.
Three figures gave chase; all were peak Star Realm cultivators—faster, fiercer, and arrogant enough to believe death was beneath them.
One flared forward and launched a bolt, snarling. Sion spun mid-air, absorbing the brunt of the strike with his back as he wrapped the child in a cocoon of spirit mist. His body cracked against the ground, rolling. He hissed through gnashing teeth but held the child steady.
The baby whimpered—barely breathing.
Sion staggered to his feet, wobbling, blood dripping from his fingertips. Another bolt roared down. This time it struck him full in the chest. Sion crashed into the sand. His knees buckled. His shoulder fractured on impact, but his grip on the child never loosened.
The lead attacker snarled again, signaling the others to encircle. Sand kicked up around Sion in shimmering arcs as he stumbled back, shielding the child with whatever energy remained. The second cultivator hurled a string of lightning spheres—quick, erratic, and hungry for flesh. Sion twisted, taking a burn across his ribs, his breath catching in silent agony. One desperate gust of wind qi surged from his palm—not elegant, but enough to stagger the closest foe.
"Pathetic," the third cultivator laughed.
Sion couldn't reply. The child whimpered once. He braced for the end.
The lead attacker descended slowly now, grinning as lightning wrapped around his arm.
"Die."
He lifted a crackling blade—spirit-forged lightning itself, ready to cleave through flesh.
Sion didn't even lift his head. He just muttered through blood-stained lips:
"I'm sorry Daddy couldn't protect you, little princess."
He expected the blade to fall. Expected pain. Expected oblivion.
It never came.
The attacker froze, eyes wide, arm trembling… then dropped dead. Not collapsed. Dead.
His hand never swung. His last breath was stolen before it was formed.
This was cause by the fourth form of his Spirit Wind Art—Wind Spirit Needle.
The other two faltered. One bolted. The other swung toward the infant, fury and panic twisting his features.
Too slow.
Jalen moved.
A flash—a whisper—a surge of cold that silenced heat, stilled time.
He activated Blizzard Coil.
Snow whirled violently into a vortex—a whirling prison of frost and biting wind. The storm wrapped around the two remaining cultivators, dragging their movements into molasses-thick resistance. One stumbled mid-retreat, limbs stiffening. The other lunged for the child—and couldn't reach.
Trapped.
Jalen didn't need more than a breath.
His fingers glimmered with quiet menace.
Winter Rend followed—three crescent blades of ice lanced forward from his hand. Each one silent. Each one perfect. They cut through the frozen vortex with surgical grace.
Two bodies fell in three pieces each.
The child was untouched.
Jalen didn't wait for death throes. He crossed the space with a blink and stood over Sion, who had dragged himself halfway upright and now glared—unknowing—into his face.
His voice was cracked. Weak. Desperate.
"Please… save her."
Then he collapsed.
Jalen knelt beside Sion's collapsed body.
The child in Sion's arms trembled, breath faint, chest rising only once every few heartbeats. Lightning hadn't merely wounded her—it charred her potential. Her meridians hadn't formed correctly. Where a soul-thread should pulse, there was only static—a spiritual murmur trying to be life.
Sion's body, though broken, was clenched around her. His shoulder fractured, skin singed, qi network frayed, and dantian barely stabilized. He had forced himself beyond the threshold—blood laced with raw desperation.
Still, he had protected her.
Jalen closed his eyes.
This wasn't a fight. It was a quiet demand.
The air dimmed.
His hands pressed together.
Two beams of light surged outward—shaped like celestial spokes turning back reality.
Flare of Recursion took hold of the father-daughter duo.
Light entered the child's body. Her undeveloped meridians restructured, not forcibly formed, but reminded of what they were meant to become. The bruised soul-thread lit once, flickered—then pulsed in rhythm. Her qi began to swirl gently, slow but stable.
She drew breath—unlabored.
Her fingers uncurled. Her eyes, closed in agony, twitched faintly beneath lashes coated in dust.
Jalen gently lifted the child from Sion's arms—cradling her with practiced ease as Flare of Recursion continued to work on Sion. It traced the fractures, then reversed them. His inner circuits resealed—his spiritual root returned to shape. Twenty-five percent qi restored.
Jael watched in reverent silence.
Then asked, softly:
"Who are these people… Father?"
Jalen replied without turning.
"Your uncle, Sion, and your baby cousin. Pick him up. He's coming with us."
Jael stepped forward, knelt, cradled Sion with quiet strength, and stood like gravity had released them.
They rose into the sky, leaving only melted frost—where death had knelt and legacy endured.