Chapter 4: First Arc of Thunder
Summer turned to autumn, and withered yellow leaves twirled in the wind, fluttering and falling onto the school's playground.
Time flowed like a slow current. After the Awakening, Han Sen felt as though he had hardly begun, yet more than two months had already slipped away.
In those months Han Sen did only one thing: Meditation.
Thunder was a violent element; at the start it required discipline and restraint rather than flashy releases. Every dawn and dusk he sat cross‑legged, guiding the faint electric hum through his veins, tempering the Thunder Star Seed until its pulse was steady. Outside of lessons and meals, his life was a single loop of meditation, class, eating, sleeping — ten hours of meditation most days. He cultivated like a man carving stone, slow and private.
Although his progress in the Magic Simulator's apprenticeship run had given him a tangible Thunder Spark, Han Sen kept that truth to himself. He knew the academy's eyes loved spectacle and rumor more than quiet growth. Letting others think of him as ordinary would buy him time and space to build power without ambush or expectation. So whenever classmates asked about demonstrations or practice, Han Sen smiled and downplayed his training: "Just meditating a lot," he would say, shrugging. No one suspected the small arcs of blue that sometimes danced at the edge of his sight.
At dusk the sun lowered itself into the west and painted the city in blood-orange. Han Sen stood at the school gate and stretched slowly, the afterglow catching the sharp angles of his face. The routine had become second nature — meditate, attend theory class, practice silently, sleep — but his days were not empty. Each heartbeat now hummed with static, each breath pulled the world's thin electric threads a little closer.
After thinking for a moment, Han Sen decided to visit Xin Xia. It had been over two months since he'd seen her; he missed the soft steadiness of her presence. But he resolved not to show off — no proud displays, no talk of sparks or titles. The Magic Simulator's rewards were his secret to sharpen, not a trophy to brandish.
He took a bus to Inscription Girls' Middle School.
Inscription Middle School belonged to a private cluster of schools and gathered the trendiest girls in Bo City. Luxury cars lined the small roads; girls clustered and compared, voices bright and sharp. Han Sen knew Xin Xia well enough to predict her path — she avoided the showy main avenue, preferring the quiet alley where bamboos leaned against low walls, their leaves whispering.
Han Sen waited, leaning against the cool brick. He kept his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, calm and unobtrusive.
Soon, a familiar, lilting voice called his name.
"Han Sen! Han Sen!"He turned. There she was — Ye Xin Xia, serene as always, sliding down the path in her wheelchair. Her features were delicate, her long lashes casting shadows over innocent eyes. When she saw him, a gentle smile bloomed across her face like sunlight on water.
"Xin Xia," Han Sen said, stepping forward with a small smile of his own.
She looked at him with that quiet warmth that always made the world slow. Han Sen reached out and ruffled the hair at her temple in the way only she let him. Xin Xia's cheeks colored faintly; she clutched the hem of his sleeve the way a cat curls into a lap.
"You're back," she whispered. "Did you—did you miss me?"
"Of course," he lied softly, though it wasn't much of a lie. He truly had missed her, but he didn't tell her about the lightning in his palm. Instead he tucked the secret behind an easy joke. "I've been meditating so much the monks will come take me away if I keep it up."
Xin Xia giggled — a sound Han Sen had learned to crave. She told him small things: a new book she liked, a classmate who'd dye her hair, the trivial politics of a girls' school. Han Sen listened and answered lightly, letting the conversation drift between them like warm wind. He kept the Magic Simulator and his Thunder Spark folded away beneath those mundane words.
When Xin Xia mentioned the academy's recent demonstrations, Han Sen only shrugged. "I haven't been showing off. I'm taking it slow," he said. His voice had the practiced neutrality of someone hiding a blade behind his back.
She studied him for a moment, then patted his knee. "You always work too hard," she murmured. "Take care of yourself."
He nodded. He would, he promised; he had reasons to be cautious. In the academy, eyes were predators — praise today could easily mean rivalry tomorrow. Let them cheer for Mo Fan's flashy displays or whisper about Mu Bai's background. Han Sen would sharpen in the quiet, and when the thunder struck, it would be on his terms.
Before leaving, Xin Xia reached into her bag and pulled out a small paper crane she'd folded for him. "For luck," she said shyly.
Han Sen accepted it, tucking it into his pocket next to the tiny scar on his palm — the only outward mark of his secret experiments. The paper crane felt ordinary, fragile. It surprised him how much the fragile things kept him steady.