Jalen was transported to a realm of endless, blinding light—so pure it made his bare skin sting, as if his very existence were an impurity being burned away.
"You have passed the first gate," the voice echoed, disembodied and ancient. "Now face the second: blinding truth. Overcome all the hidden conflict and malice in your heart to ascend."
The light surged.
And the memories came—not as visions, but as presences. Each one alive. Each one demanding.
He was fifteen again, back at the Hewitt compound, playing the role of servant, though it was beneath him. The courtyard shimmered with heat, and the polished stone tiles reflected the faces of clan youths who sneered as he passed. No one saw him—not truly. To them, he was a shadow, a footnote in the family ledger.
Back then, Jalen had worn silence like armor, his expression carved from stone. As if their mockery didn't touch him. As if he were above it.
But inside, he was burning.
He was furious—treated like trash by those who barely deserved to stand beside him. Younger cousins, shallow in spirit and weak in talent, looked down on him as if he were dirt. And worst of all, his father—once a proud cultivator—was reduced to sweeping floors while the elders turned away.
Jalen had trained until his body ached, suffered in silence, and endured the weight of duty no child should bear. Every time Jaquan's illness flared, Jalen tended to him day after day, watching helplessly as his father suffered. It made him feel like a useless son—powerless, bitter, and angry.
He resented the family that cast them out. And deep down, he resented Jaquan—for accepting it. For bowing his head when Jalen wanted to raise fists. For smiling through the pain to spare Jalen the burden. That smile, that quiet surrender—it enraged him. Sometimes, he hated Jaquan for being so fractured and weak. For bringing him into a rotten family. For forcing him to endure a harsh life at such a tender age.
There were times he wanted to scream at the heavens and demand justice. But he didn't. Because it felt pointless.
Resentment festered in him like rot beneath polished wood. He had smiled, nodded, and obeyed—but inside, he had wanted to crush the Hewitt family. To show them what power looked like. To make them kneel and beg for forgiveness they didn't deserve.
Now, all those people stood before him again. Rage boiled within him, compelling him to slaughter them all.
He wanted to.
But he didn't.
Because he feared what it would make him. And besides, it wouldn't change anything.
Seeing how far he had come, he realized he wouldn't change anything. After all, being rejected is what made him the man he is today.
And then, clarity struck.
Jaquan hadn't accepted the family's cruelty because he was weak. He had endured it—for Jalen's sake. He had bowed not out of submission, but out of love. He wanted Jalen to live a safe and peaceful life.
Just as Jalen had hidden his strength so Jaquan wouldn't have to suffer.
In the end, both had sacrificed—not because they were weak, but because they loved too deeply to let the other fall alone.
Then the memories shifted—to the Crown Kingdom dungeon, where Jaquan was shackled.
Jalen had stood in the shadows, watching his father kneel in chains. At the time, he'd focused on escape, on strategy, on silence. But now, the light of the trial stripped away that mask.
He hadn't just seen a prisoner. He'd seen a man who once carried him on his shoulders, now unable to lift his own head.
And he had felt something he hadn't admitted until now.
Shame.
Not for being weak—but for being strong in all the wrong ways.
If he had watched his father more carefully, the Crown Kingdom might never have touched him.
The scene blurred and merged with another: Jaquan, imprisoned in the lowest depths of the Waveweave Temple, bloodied, barely breathing. Broken in body and spirit.
That wasn't just cruelty. That was punishment—for Jalen's sins.
If not for his pride—his arrogance—if he hadn't slaughtered high officials and disciples across the Reign continent without restraint, his father and those he loved wouldn't have paid the price.
And just as those memories simmered in his soul, came the centuries of loneliness in the Shadow Realm.
It hadn't just shaped him—it had carved into him.
Sure, he had created shadow clones of his loved ones. Not to deceive himself, but to survive.
He had spoken to echoes. Laughed with memories. Held illusions close just to remember what warmth felt like.
But it still wasn't enough to make it go away.
Loneliness didn't just shape him—it scarred him.
And while he was drowning, the memories dragged him back to that moment at the flaming pool within the Mystic Ground.
Jalen's body moved—not by his own will, but by the origin shard. He had thrown Jael into the formation.
"No—" he rasped.
But the Origin Shard didn't care.
The guilt of that moment ate him alive. It was the kind that rewrites memory. That makes you question whether you ever loved at all.
He told himself it wasn't his doing. That he would never have chosen to harm Jael. But the self-hate lingered. He had allowed it to happen. And that truth haunted him.
Then came the most recent and most painful tragedy—the agony of learning Rana had undergone not one but two cleansing rituals and believing she had lost their child, or rather children. He found out later that she was actually pregnant with twins.
He wanted to unravel. And now, he did.
He wept. He screamed. He punched the walls until his fists bled. He blamed his own weakness for all her suffering—and for the suffering of their children.
And then there was Jael—the child who had trusted him, who had looked to him for protection.
The poor kid who had trusted Jalen to guard his well-being, only to be used by the Origin Shard as a vessel for power. The shard had used his hands, his choices, and his bond with Jael—and Jalen had let it happen.
Jalen hadn't known until recently. But that didn't absolve him.
The emotions surged—rage, guilt, grief, shame, and loneliness—each one clawing at his soul like a storm of knives. But in the eye of that storm, Jalen saw the truth: pain is not weakness. And healing is not forgetting. It's choosing to carry the weight without letting it break you.
He couldn't afford to drown in self-pity. Not now. Too many lives depended on him. Too many hearts still beat because he had endured.
With that conviction, the memories ceased. The storm of emotion stilled. Jalen found himself once more at the center of the light—bare, unguarded, and unchanged in form, but not in spirit.
The light pulsed around him, gentle now, as if acknowledging the shift within.
Then, slowly, it began to recede.
The voice returned, ancient and steady.
"You have overcome the hidden conflict and malice in your own heart. You may proceed."
Something within Jalen stirred—not in body, but in soul.
A quiet resilience settled into him, like steel tempered in sacred flame.
Soul Tempering—a trait forged through trial. His spirit, once vulnerable to illusion and emotional fracture, now stood firm. Manipulation, memory-bound torment, soul-based attacks—they would find no easy purchase. His clarity had become a shield.
He didn't feel lighter. He felt heavier—but steadier. Like a blade that had finally been quenched.
He had faced the storm—and stepped forward, whole.