Morning meals in the Rathore household were a quiet, suffocating affair. The aroma of freshly cooked flatbread and spiced lentils, usually a source of simple comfort, did nothing to dispel the thick tension that hung over the table.
Priya and Meera, oblivious to the subtle currents of Qi and pride, chattered happily, their conversation flowing like a stream around the three silent, stone-like men of their family.
Vikram ate with his usual quiet discipline, but his gaze kept drifting to Aryan, a deep, analytical light in his eyes. He was like a master craftsman examining a piece of steel that had, overnight, transformed from brittle iron into a flawless, Damascus blade.
He was studying the grain, testing the edge, trying to comprehend the miracle he had invested in.
Aryan, the blade in question, was a picture of peace. He ate his meal with a steady, unhurried pace, his presence calm and centered. He was a deep, still lake, reflecting the turmoil around him without being disturbed by it.
The real storm, however, was raging inside Rohan.
For Rohan, breakfast was an exercise in torture. Every bite of food tasted like ash in his mouth. He couldn't take his eyes off his younger brother. He had built his entire identity on being the pride of the Rathore family—the strong, the diligent, the hope for the future. His brother was the antithesis of that identity—the failure, the weakling, the source of their family's shame.
This dynamic was the bedrock of his world. And in a single morning, that bedrock had been pulverized.
He could feel the Qi emanating from Aryan. It wasn't the weak, flickering candlelight he was used to. It was a controlled, steady furnace, burning with a heat that felt dangerously close to his own. 6th Layer of the Qi Condensation Realm. It was impossible. He himself, the family "genius," had been stuck at the 7th Layer for six agonizing months, unable to break the barrier to the 7th Layer of the Qi Condensation Realm.
Yet his useless brother had leaped three layers in a single night? It defied all logic, all rules of cultivation.
He watched Aryan lift a cup of water to his lips. The movement was simple, fluid, and possessed a quiet economy of motion that Rohan, a dedicated martial artist, recognized immediately. It was the kind of inherent physical control that came only from absolute mastery over one's body. It was a control that Rohan, for all his strength, did not possess.
Jealousy was a simple, hot thing, easily understood. What came after was worse: a cold, creeping dread that hollowed him out. It was the terror of irrelevance. If his brother's 'enlightenment' could erase his own years of sweat and sacrifice in a single night, what was the point of his struggle? Every taunt he had ever thrown at Aryan now felt like a self-inflicted wound, mocking his own foolish, wasted effort.
After the meal, Aryan stood up. "Mother, Father, I'm heading into town for a few hours."
"Again?" Priya asked, a note of concern in her voice. "Is everything alright?"
"Everything is fine, Mother," Aryan said, his voice reassuring. "I just have some business to take care of."
Vikram simply nodded, his eyes giving a silent approval. He had given his son the resources; it was up to him to use them as he saw fit.
Aryan left the compound, leaving behind a family grappling with his transformation. He walked the familiar streets of Devgarh, but his purpose today was different. He wasn't just exploring; he was consolidating his wins and planning his next phase.
He bypassed the common market, his steps taking him to a quieter, more secluded part of the city where the shops had proper wooden signs and glass-paned windows. This was where the real cultivators and wealthy merchants conducted their business. He stopped before a shop whose sign depicted a bubbling cauldron and a mortar and pestle.
"The Alchemist's Crucible," the sign read.
As he stepped inside, a wave of complex aromas washed over him—the sharp scent of dried herbs, the earthy smell of rare minerals, and the faint, metallic tang of alchemical reagents. The shop was lined with shelves holding hundreds of glass jars and wooden drawers, each meticulously labeled in elegant script.
An old woman with hair as white as snow looked up from behind a long wooden counter. Her eyes, sharp as obsidian chips, swept over him, dismissing his plain clothes and youthful appearance in a single glance. "The reagents on shelf three are volatile, and I have no time for beggars or boys with idle curiosity. State your purpose."