Away from the academy, back at the Hale household, Denwen sat cross-legged in the dim glow of his room. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, each inhale drawing in faint traces of essence from the surrounding air. Around him, shattered remnants of essence cores lay scattered across the floor like fragments of broken glass, a testament to his relentless pursuit of strength.
In front of him, a lone essence core flickered with an eerie glow, its energy rapidly depleting. The Verdant Core Pendant that hung around his neck pulsed with a faint green light, amplifying the core's output far beyond its natural limit. Wisps of emerald essence curled through the air like threads of mist, spiraling into his body as he absorbed every last trace of power.
The difference between cultivating at home and at the academy was stark. The academy provided state-of-the-art cultivation chambers—soundproof, reinforced, and saturated with condensed essence, allowing students to focus entirely on their breakthroughs. Here, in the modest Hale residence, distractions were everywhere. The muffled sounds of merchants calling out prices, the occasional laughter of children playing in the streets, and the distant chatter of passersby filtered through the thin walls.
But Denwen had found his own way to drown out the chaos. His earbuds rested snugly in his ears, playing the soothing, melancholic melodies of Xena's music. Somehow, her voice had a way of smoothing out the rough edges of his thoughts, sharpening his focus. The gentle notes carried him into a trance-like state, allowing him to align perfectly with the flow of essence.
A deep breath. His mind cleared.
Denwen shifted his focus inward, directing his awareness to the core of his being. Within the depths of his soul, his essence reservoir churned like a vast emerald sea, its glow illuminating the darkness of his inner world. The once vibrant green color had begun to flicker—darkening, condensing, evolving. His energy was growing denser, the faint impurities within his core being burned away with every passing second.
He could feel it.
The moment of transformation was near.
A dull ache spread through his limbs as his meridians stretched under the growing pressure. His essence channels, though resilient, trembled under the strain of rapid advancement. Each pulse of energy sent waves of heat coursing through his body, as if molten fire and liquid ice were colliding within him.
His breathing grew heavier. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
This was the wall that separated Mid Rank 1 from Peak Rank 1.
And he was right at its edge.
"I'm so close," he thought, clenching his fists.
But the essence within his core suddenly wavered. The final traces of energy from the last essence core were exhausted, leaving him at a frustrating standstill.
Denwen exhaled sharply, his eyes flickering open. The vibrant green glow that had been on the verge of deepening into something stronger had faded, returning to its stable, unchanging state.
His fingers tightened around the now-dull essence core in front of him, frustration gnawing at his chest.
"I've used up everything," he muttered, glancing at the shattered remains around him.
The Verdant Core Pendant had helped stretch his resources further than usual, but even with it and his Grade C talent, he had only barely reached the brink of Peak Rank 1. He lacked just a bit more—one final push, one more surge of essence—to complete the transition.
A slow breath. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
For now, he had no choice but to stop.
Denwen's eyelids fluttered open, the remnants of his cultivation trance fading as reality settled in. His body felt slightly sore from hours of meditation, but a different sensation—a quiet presence—made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
His gaze flickered to the side, and his breath hitched.
Nicole sat on the edge of his bed, her chin propped up by her palm, watching him with an amused expression. The dim glow of the room's light cast soft shadows on her face, highlighting the playful glint in her eyes.
"For a suspended student-criminal, you sure do a lot of hard work," she teased, her lips curling into a smirk.
Denwen sighed heavily, rubbing his nose in frustration. "Sigh… What do you want now, Nicole?"
She pouted dramatically. "Come on, bro, can't a little sister be inspired by her big brother anymore?"
Denwen rolled his eyes. "By the nine kingdoms, Nicole, you are going to be the end of me." He swung his legs off the bed and stretched before grabbing his towel. "I need a shower."
"Hold on." Nicole's voice sobered slightly, making him pause. "Dad called for us. He said it's something important. I don't really know what it's about."
Denwen arched an eyebrow, but before he could ask further, she stretched her arms high above her head, releasing a series of audible cracks from her spine.
He frowned. "Wait… Aren't you too young to be showing signs of arthritis?"
Nicole's expression darkened instantly. "I swear, if I catch you, I will bite you."
With a playful growl, she lunged at him. Denwen let out a yelp and bolted out of the room, barely dodging her grasp.
They dashed down the hallway, Nicole hot on his heels, her hands swiping at his back. "Come back here, you little—"
Denwen stumbled into the sitting room, breathless. "Mom! Your cannibal of a daughter is threatening me again!"
But his voice trailed off as the atmosphere in the room fully registered.
The playful energy drained from his body like a candle snuffed out in the wind.
Racheal stood near the kitchen, her hands clasped over her mouth, trembling. Silent tears streamed down her face as she stared at the television screen.
Varek sat on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His face, usually calm and composed, was set in a grim, unreadable mask. His knuckles were white, his breathing slow and controlled—too controlled.
The air was heavy.
Denwen's heart thudded.
"Hey…" His voice wavered. "Tell me this isn't true."
His eyes snapped to the TV screen.
On the stage stood Principal Dvalin, his figure uncharacteristically solemn as he addressed the crowd. Behind him, rows of chairs were filled with dignitaries and powerful figures—the Emberbanes, the Ignisclades, and many others. The atmosphere was suffocating with grief and finality.
Nicole, who had entered the parlor still in chase mode, froze mid-step, her gaze locking onto the screen.
The bold headline at the bottom of the broadcast sent ice through Denwen's veins.
"The Funeral of Garrick Clifford and the 3rd Unit."
The camera panned across the silent audience before stopping at a familiar figure.
Roy.
The once proud, confident boy now sat hunched in his chair, his head bowed, his entire frame trembling as gut-wrenching sobs wracked his body. Gerald, stood beside him, a hand resting on his shoulder, his usual cocky expression absent—replaced by quiet sorrow.
Denwen's throat tightened.
Garrick… was gone?
That unshakable, overwhelming force—the man who had stood against monsters without fear, who had always seemed larger than life—was dead?
His hands clenched into fists. His mind rejected it.
But the proof was in front of him, broadcasted across the entire continent.
A shuddering breath left Racheal's lips as she turned away, unable to watch any longer. Varek remained still, his posture tense, his mind lost in thought.
Nicole slowly sank onto the couch, her usual energy completely drained, her face pale.
Denwen stared at the screen, his body rigid.
It felt… unreal.
Yet the weight in his chest told him otherwise.
________________________________________
Far away, in a darkened room, the air was thick with sorrow.
Shards of a broken mirror littered the floor, glistening like tiny stars in the dim lighting. The room was in disarray—papers scattered, furniture slightly askew, as if someone had lashed out in grief before collapsing into exhaustion.
In the farthest corner, curled against the wall, was a woman—unrecognizable from the poised, radiant figure she once was.
Zara.
Her once-pristine beauty was marred by the weight of grief. Dark circles framed her bloodshot eyes, evidence of nights spent crying until there were no more tears left to shed. Her lips were chapped, her usually styled hair a tangled mess.
Yet in her trembling hands, she clutched a single object—a pendant.
A simple thing, its surface worn from years of being held, but within it lay a picture.
A picture of a man who had carried it with him everywhere.
A picture of Garrick Clifford.
Zara clutched the pendant to her chest, her dry eyes staring blankly into the void, her breath shallow.
Crimora had lost a hero.
And unbeknownst to them all, this was only the beginning.
The beginning of the end.