The pulse hadn't faded.
Even a full night after the sky split open above the eastern glades, the Vernon Continent trembled with aftershock. Crops bent. Beasts hid. River currents warped against their usual flow.
The Hewitt's moved first.
Two figures stepped into the glade beneath a sky still mending—Ronald Hewitt, Patriarch, and Silver Hewitt, one of the family's Peak Diamond cultivators. They said nothing. They didn't need to. Together, they embodied power shaped by legacy.
The inner circle followed in silence, sweeping the cratered basin with sensory formations and soul threads. They found no origin. No mark. Only pressure—dense, residual qi that clung to the stone like a breath held too long.
This wasn't just power.
This was Enlightenment.
And the one who had achieved it had left nothing behind but aftermath.
They weren't alone for long.
Seconds later, the remaining Nine Great Families arrived. No banners. No guards. Just the family leaders themselves—each a Peak Diamond cultivator, each the final word in their bloodline's affairs.
Troy Wester, wind-hushed and spine-straight, moved like consequence more than command. Tisa Leopold, red-gilt and razor-silent, cast sharper shadows than most blades. The air around her shimmered faintly—heat folded into discipline. Tash Sylvester, white-gowned and winter-quiet, stepped as if her feet remembered frost. Her breath left no mist. Her presence left no doubt. Ren Ainsworth, ink-braced and watchful, let silence say more than most speeches. His qi coiled like a scholar's blade—measured, but lethal. Rory Crowne, unmoved, eyes deep-set, stood like a wall that had never fallen. Lionel Talien, the youngest among them, bore neither apology nor arrogance—his presence sharp, clean, and untested by scandal. Benjamin Illume, robed in mirrored slate, saw and said little but reflected everything. His presence bent light—not with stealth, but with certainty. Shane Danvers, wind-scattered and hard to read, exhaled like someone listening to a world no one else could hear. Dixon Santrell, cane-borne and shadow-hung, did not blink when others did.
They formed a cautious arc around the crater, exchanging nods more measured than greetings. No one questioned why the others had come.
They all understood.
Ronald Hewitt gave a single glance to the others. "I'll speak plainly. Does anyone here claim the cultivator responsible?"
A pause.
Troy Wester was first to respond. "He isn't ours. If we'd prepared a Peak ascension, you'd have known."
Tisa folded her arms. "Nor is he ours."
Tash's breath hung cold in the air. "There was no herald. No sect seal. Whoever rose here meant to go unnoticed."
Ren Ainsworth's eyes stayed on the fractures in the soil. "The markings are surgical. Intentional. This was an Enlightenment prepared for—not stumbled into."
Rory's gaze didn't shift. "And concealed with precision. No signature. No trace."
Lionel Talien inclined his head slightly. "That makes this expert dangerous—not because they broke through, but because they did so beyond our eyes."
Benjamin spoke low. "Intent matters. Control matters more. And we are operating in neither."
Then, lightly, Shane offered, "Could this be the infamous Shade's doing?"
No one laughed.
Tisa clicked her tongue. "That name again."
"It's spreading," Dixon said, voice quiet. "Even among the middle sects. A figure who arrives, ascends, and vanishes—leaving a legend behind and nothing else. The name fits the space he left."
Tash didn't look up. "Legends are born from silence. And this is one of the loudest silences I've ever seen."
Ronald let the moment stretch, then broke it with calm resolve. "No rumors. No theatrics. We acknowledge what we all know—someone reached the enlightened realm in this glade. If that cultivator belongs to one of your sects, state it now. Quietly. No judgment. Just clarity."
No one moved.
Shane's gaze swept the basin. "Then we begin looking."
Ronald gave a single nod. "Investigate your lines. With care. We will not accept imbalance disguised as mystery."
The others nodded, some curt, some cold.
Then they turned and left—one by one, with the wind crawling behind them like a question.
Only the glade remained.
And the air still held the shape of something that refused to be named.
Jalen hadn't fled. He had vanished.
Through ley-veins and silence-folded woods, he reached the deep hollow of the Spiritwild Verge.
It wasn't shelter. It wasn't sacred.
It was simply untouched.
There, beneath bowed trees and moss-soft stone, he let the new realm settle. It wasn't pain. It wasn't pleasure.
It was realignment.
Breath flowed cleaner. Thought sat lighter. Every pulse of qi moved with purpose rather than noise.
But something lingered behind the stillness.
The spirit shard.
It pulsed in his chest—not cold, not warm. Just there. Beyond command. Beyond clarity.
He tried everything.
Drove qi through its edge. Pressed resonance from his primary core. Pushed intent, memory, and even fear into the connection.
Nothing.
The Shard refused every attempt—not with violence. With indifference.
And that worried him more.
He'd read of relics like this in the forbidden edges of historical scrolls—artifacts bound not by ownership, but by fate. Items that didn't respond to authority… because they were authority. Silent judges passed down from eras long erased.
"You saved me," he muttered to the canopy above. "But I don't trust what I can't understand."
It could be a gift. It could be a test. It could be the first domino in something even older.
And until he knew… he would watch it just as it watched him. And he would do the same with the second core—the one that remained untouched, unbothered, as if waiting for something he hadn't yet become.
By the time stars bled into dawn, he returned.
Barefoot. Burned clothing long gone—shredded in the Garden's wrath. He moved quietly through beast trails and slipped through a side gate used only for refuse and herbal culling.
No one saw him.
Behind the kitchen annex, he pulled a half-dried training robe from a line and wrapped it around his frame. The fabric clung slightly to skin still charged with something too clean to name. The flagstones beneath his feet felt colder than usual—as if even the compound recognized the difference in him.
He stepped into his quarters just before the second bell.
The room was still. Scented faintly with yesterday's incense. His mat untouched. The window dewed over.
A soft knock.
His father's voice—tired, warm, familiar. "Jalen? You awake?"
He blinked. Jalen.
He moved to the door and opened it slowly.
Jaquan stood there, wrapped in his usual faded robe, eyes lingering a moment too long on his son's face.
"Well," he said, cautious, "Don't let the day slip by. You were close yesterday, weren't you? Maybe today's the one—Mid-stage Ruby?"
Jalen nodded slowly. "Maybe."
Jaquan smiled, tired but proud. "You're strong. Your breakthrough's close—I can feel it."
The words landed heavier than they used to.
Jalen gave a small bow and stepped into the corridor.
Shoes slung under his arm.
Jogging toward the courtyard—not joyfully. Just fast enough to make it look like effort.
Each step scraped the edge of a truth no one else could see.
He hated the show. But the curtain hadn't fallen yet. And until it did… He would wear the mask. And wait.