One morning, Jalen suggested a walk through Tidefall City to gather materials that would better suit Nate's current realm. Everything in Nate's possession was designed for cultivators far beyond his level.
They moved through the bustling streets—past vendors selling spirit fruit and enchanted trinkets, past scholars debating cultivation theory, past children sparring with wooden swords. Nate walked behind Jalen, his robes clean, his father's pendant tucked beneath his collar.
They made several stops, purchasing herbs and cultivation items using spirit stones from Jalen's pouch. During their fifth transaction at a vendor selling spirit fruit, Nate heard voices—familiar ones.
His cousins.
Vaughn, Lionel, and Riley. The same boys who had beaten him the day he met Jalen. He didn't want to deal with them now, but fate rarely cared for convenience.
"Look who it is—it's Nate," Riley sneered.
"Everybody thought you were dead," Vaughn laughed.
"It would've been better if he was," Lionel spat. "Trash like him shouldn't be allowed to breathe."
Nate turned slowly. The three stood a few paces away, their Emerald Realm auras flaring with arrogance.
"How about we kill him and dump the body?" Riley said. "No one would miss him."
"Yeah," Vaughn added. "And we'll take that stupid pendant his father left behind."
Nate didn't respond. He simply turned and continued walking behind Jalen, who hadn't even glanced their way. He had no time for childish squabbles.
"Hey! Wait up, you brat!" Riley shouted, lunging forward.
But Nate was already moving.
With a flick of his wrist, his Qi surged. The air shimmered, then condensed into a nearly invisible needle—fueled by spirit sense and wind.
Spirit Wind Art—Fourth Form: Wind Spirit Needle.
The needle shot forward in a blur, striking Riley in the forehead. He collapsed instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground. Normally, such an attack would kill someone weaker than the user. But Nate wasn't interested in killing Riley. He wanted to teach a lesson—and it worked.
The other two froze, their bravado evaporating.
Nate's eyes met theirs—calm, unreadable.
"You should leave," he said quietly.
They didn't need to be told twice. They turned and ran, dragging their unconscious cousin behind them.
Nate resumed walking, his expression unchanged.
Jalen glanced at him for the first time. "You didn't kill him."
"No need," Nate replied. "They're not worth it."
Jalen nodded. "Good. Power without restraint is just destruction."
They walked on, the city alive around them. But Nate felt something shift inside him. He wasn't the same boy he was six weeks ago. Not the same boy who got beaten by his rotten cousins day in, day out.
He was a cultivator now. A disciple. A wind-borne force.
And he was just getting started.
The evening air was cool, tinged with jasmine and the distant salt of the sea. Tidefall City had begun to settle into its nightly rhythm—lanterns flickering to life, merchants packing up their stalls, and cultivators retreating to their chambers.
Nate wiped sweat from his brow, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his final breathing cycle. The spot in Tidal Fall Forest where he trained these past weeks was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the soft hum of residual Qi.
He turned to Jalen, who sat cross-legged beneath the old wind tree, eyes half-closed, as if listening to something beyond the physical world.
"Master," Nate said, bowing respectfully. "When will you teach me the seventh technique of the Spirit Wind Art?"
Jalen opened his eyes slowly, studying Nate with a calm gaze. "Reach the Pearl Realm first," he said. "Then we'll talk."
Nate nodded. "Alright," he said, and returned to his training without another word.
Jalen watched him go, his expression unreadable. The boy's progress was astonishing—faster than Lloyd and Rana. But it wasn't just talent. It was desperation. Hunger. A need to prove something not just to the world, but to himself.
As Nate resumed his breathing patterns, Jalen's gaze shifted subtly toward the eastern trees. A flicker of movement. A shadow that lingered too long.
Someone was watching.
He didn't react. Didn't tense. Instead, he closed his eyes again and let the wind carry his awareness.
Still, Jalen had his suspicions. The spy was likely from the Yale Clan—Nate's own blood. A noble house second only to the imperial family in prestige and power. From what he'd learned through Nate and a bit of quiet investigation, the picture was clear.
Nate's father, Augustus Yale, the youngest of three hundred brothers, had been a top disciple of the clan. A prodigy destined for greatness. He reached the Spirit Fusion Realm in just four hundred and fifty years—a feat that marked him as a genius.
His grandfather, Alexus Yale, had been even more revered—a Sage Realm expert and one of the emperor's closest confidants. The former Patriarch of the Yale Clan.
But both were gone now.
Nine years ago, Alexus was gravely wounded in a conflict between neighboring states—a battle among Sage Realm experts so fierce it nearly tore two continents apart. He eventually succumbed to his injuries. Not long after, Augustus, who had been in line to succeed the Patriarch, died of what the clan called an "incurable illness."
Jalen didn't believe in coincidences. Not in the cultivation world. Not when power and legacy were involved.
He'd seen the signs in Nate's body the day they met: lingering poison, damaged meridians, and the unnatural suppression of his spirit root. It wasn't misfortune—it was sabotage. Calculated. Precise. If Augustus had been poisoned too, it was likely with something far more lethal.
That's how they erased him—fabricating a story about a tragic death on a family expedition.
But they hadn't erased everything.
Nate lived. And that mistake would cost them.
His life had been carved from tragedy—born into greatness, stripped of potential, discarded like refuse. That he survived at all was a miracle. Or perhaps, a warning. Fate hadn't abandoned him. It had simply waited.
They tried to erase him. They failed. And now, with Jalen at his side, that failure would become their undoing.
Jalen saw it with unwavering clarity: this boy would rise. Not just as a cultivator, but as a reckoning. And when he did, the world would remember his name. The ones who buried his legacy would pay—in blood, in silence, in ruin.