The Hewitt family was one of the ten great families of the Vernon Continent—and by most accounts, the strongest among them.
While the other nine boasted lineage, legacy, or rare bloodline techniques, the Hewitt's possessed unmatched force.
Two Peaked Diamond Realm cultivators stood at the helm of the Hewitt name, one of them the current family head. On the Vernon Continent, such cultivators were not merely elite—they were the pinnacle of mortal strength. No spirit beast, rogue sect, or wandering blade challenged their power lightly. Beneath them, twenty-five elders held ranks spanning from peak-stage Gold to mid-tier Diamond, each a pillar in the clan's martial spine. Supporting that core was a phalanx of Gold Realm experts, reinforced by a wide cadre of Amethyst-level specialists—masters of formation, alchemy, spirit weaponry, and warding arts.
They weren't just a family. They were a siege engine shaped by blood and time.
And today, that engine was on display.
The Under-Sixteen Tournament, hosted within the Grand Stone Court, had drawn attention from every direction—from low-tier sect hopefuls to inner elders of the Continental Nine. They came not just to observe but to assess, to posture, and perhaps to secure a whisper of alliance.
Most competitors were between thirteen and fifteen—barely a decade into cultivation. At that age, reaching Core Emerald was considered promising. Late Emerald, exceptional. Pearl? Rare enough to draw whispers.
The court itself loomed like a monument to silence. Hewn from mountain stone and lined with spirit-woven marble, it bore the mark of centuries—where branches of the Hewitt line came to weigh their worth. And where elders came to pretend they were not already disappointed.
Red and gold banners hung limp in the still morning air. Incense trails curled from the altar bowls. The arena's polished surface reflected nothing but cold sky.
It was beautiful.
And it reeked of performance.
The morning belonged to the promising—those not yet sixteen, standing just shy of legacy. Old enough to bear weight. Young enough for it not to leave a scar.
Jalen entered from the far servants' gate before the bells rang. He walked beneath carved ancestor statues without bowing. Without slowing.
The lesser cousins were already filing in through the east entrance, chattering beneath their breath—match predictions, gossiping, and secret insults veiled as observations.
No one noticed him.
Of course they didn't.
He moved as one of the attendants, in the same gray uniform, balancing a scroll case beneath one arm and a water jar under the other. The disguise wasn't clever.
It was simply beneath questioning.
He found his place at the northern wall, tucked into the servants' row behind a broken column. The stone was cracked down the center, thin enough to see through. From here, he could track every match. Every stance. Every flare of spirit aura.
He watched the platform slowly fill with competitors. Cousins his age. A few older—by months, not years. All fresh from closed-door sessions and bloodline cultivation wells. They walked with shoulders back and breath tight in their cores. They nodded to elders. Flashed glimpses of inner fields—just enough to suggest control.
And they looked so proud. So loud.
Jalen breathed once. In. Out.
Still, nothing around him stirred.
The first matches began simply enough. Ceremony masked as combat.
But by the fourth duel, the prodigies emerged.
Kaelin Hewitt stepped into the ring at fifteen. Cloaked in obsidian-lined robes and family-enchanted armor, she looked sculpted—severe high cheekbones, obsidian-black hair braided into a gilded crown. Her skin, pale and polished with cultivation oils, caught the morning light like porcelain edged in flame.
Her aura drifted high and clean. Early Pearl Realm. Tight as a drawn bowstring.
Most cultivators didn't touch Pearl until their forties. Kaelin had reached it before sixteen. The elders would be watching. They already were.
She didn't rush her opponent. She dissected her. Four exchanges. No wasted motion.
Her movements followed the Gallant Wind Blade's rhythm—cutting arcs, pressure bursts, and seamless transitions. But they were polished past necessity. Too smooth. Too staged.
Efficient, Jalen noted. But curated. Like a demonstration meant to be witnessed, not survived.
Then came Weylan Hewitt. Fourteen years old. Peak Sapphire Realm—a stage where most cultivators lingered through their twenties and thirties.
His style was windroot-based: fast, elegant, and visually striking. But beneath the flourish, his foundation wavered. He rebounded off unstable footing, chasing momentum over mastery. His breath discipline was shallow. His control is performative.
The Hewitt clan's wind-rooted method demanded silence between motion. Weylan filled it with noise.
He was quick. But not quiet.
And then—two stepped forward who truly stood apart.
One was Delra Hewitt—dagger specialist, pressure-based defense. Wiry and short, with skin like storm-polished clay and coal-dark eyes that never blinked when they struck.
Her spirit rhythm flickered—erratic on the surface, devastating beneath. She moved like misdirection incarnate, each strike angled with anatomical precision. Not just footwork. Nerve work.
Her dagger style twisted the Gallant Wind Blade's elegance into something sharper. Less art. More autopsy.
She didn't follow the method. She dissected it.
The other was Sion Carros—a coastal branch cousin. Tall, broad-shouldered, sea-wind hair braided loose, bronze skin marked by an old scar curling across his collarbone.
His foundation wasn't just refined—it was rewritten. Flow-form Taolu merged with raw spirit emission. He fought like someone whose bones remembered pain. His aura didn't shout. It spoke.
Even his taolu bore the Gallant Wind Blade's imprint—pressure arcs, wind-step transitions—but layered with coastal rhythm. Like someone who'd learned to fight in storms, not scroll halls.
His aura didn't just cut. It swayed.
Jalen watched them both with narrowed eyes.
Peak Sapphire. And sharp enough to wound above their level, he thought.
If they kept their pace, they'd reach Pearl before forty. Maybe Gold Realm before seventy, if luck and lineage held.
Then came Tian Hewitt. Fifteen. Mid Pearl Realm.
Broad-shouldered and sharply tapered at the waist, he moved like a drawn bow—balanced, coiled, and measured. Ash-brown hair fell in jagged waves over one eye, and a faint red mark, like a birth scar, curled beneath his collarbone. His gaze didn't drift. It locked—like someone trained to make others flinch first.
His stance was textbook. Every motion mirrored the Gallant Wind Blade's twelve forms with surgical clarity.
But his control was unnerving. Not practiced. Engineered.
Pearl Realm at fifteen was unheard of. Most reached it in their forties—after decades of refinement, failure, and breathwork. Tian had arrived early. Too early.
To the elders, he was a prodigy. To Jalen, he was a performance—just fast enough to be mistaken for one.
And Jalen leaned forward.
The rest unfolded in rhythm—pressure building, skills clashing, egos colliding beneath practiced bows. Jalen kept watching. Noting minor flaws. Subtle overextensions. Moments of brilliance buried beneath bloodline arrogance.
They were all ahead of schedule.
And still centuries behind him.