The Hidden in Myth

Inside the quiet of his room, Vern sat cross-legged, the floor beneath him already scorched faintly from the heat radiating off his skin. The air trembled. His veins glowed faintly beneath the surface, like molten threads weaving through fragile flesh.

Essence surged within him, no longer gentle, no longer patient — it rushed like a river loosed from a dam, seeking the paths he forced it through. Each essence point pulsed like a tiny sun, flickering wildly as Vern's consciousness forced the connections, one after another.

And with each imagined thread, a searing pain.

Blood trickled from his nose, then his eyes, and soon his ears, thin crimson lines etching down his face like cracks in porcelain.

"I can't stop," Vern whispered to himself, his teeth gritted. "This is just beginning..... I have to endure this pain."

The imaginary thread forging method — was fast, dangerous, and unorthodox. A single misstep could rupture the channels, permanently crippling a cultivator's ability to ever feel essence again, you can die.

But it had its own brilliance.

It burned away all impurity.

Everything useless. Every flaw. Every lingering weakness of the body, purged in the crucible of will.

His skin glistened with sweat, and soon a faint, black residue — the impurities — began seeping from his pores, staining his garments, reeking faintly of ash and rot.

Outside the door, Azum Hemda stood silent, one hand resting on the hilt of the short saber at his side. Though the years had grayed his hair and stiffened his joints, his eyes remained sharp, and his presence was immovable — like an old tree that had weathered every storm.

He had been there since Vern's first breath.

Not as a noble. Not as a warrior. But as the one soul who had stayed.

Servants had come and gone. Attendants had left, citing more promising duties. But Azum never wavered.

He wasn't just a bodyguard anymore.

He was family — though the clan would never admit it.

The sound of footsteps drew near, breaking the quiet.

A man appeared at the turn of the corridor, clad in a blue kimono, his demeanor calm and refined. His face bore the subtle lines of age, but his eyes were alert, intelligent, and composed.

Azum eyed him carefully.

"Greetings," the man said with a slight bow. "I'm here to see Young Master Vern. May I speak with him?"

Azum straightened but did not move from the door.

"Young Master is in deep training," he said, voice even but firm. "He's left strict instructions not to be disturbed. Not by anyone."

The man nodded, polite, unfazed.

"I understand. Might I ask… when he will be available?"

Azum shook his head. "He didn't say. Only that he'll come out when it's finished. Until then, no one enters. I must honor that."

The visitor folded his hands into his sleeves, a faint smile touching his lips.

"Very well. Then please deliver this when the time comes."

From his robe, he drew a sealed parchment — elegant, with the sigil of Water Tree Tower in silver ink across it.

"It's from Lady Mizuki," the man added. "She asked it be delivered to his own hand."

Azum accepted the letter with both hands, bowing slightly. "I will see to it personally, once Young Master finishes his training."

The man bowed again. "Thank you. Then I'll take my leave."

As he turned and disappeared down the corridor, Azum's eyes lingered on the seal.

Water Tree Tower. Lady Mizuki.

He knew that name.

'Why would Lady Misu send a letter to Young Master? She is up to something.'

He turned his gaze back to the door, behind which Vern now trembled under the weight of his own strength.

'Young Master....'

Inside, Vern's body shuddered once more.

Another essence thread lit up.

And the transformation continued.

Beyond the veil of embroidered silk, where moonlight spilled like silver ink across polished jade floors, silence reigned in the high chamber of the Water Tree Tower. The air was rich with the scent of dragon lily and sandalwood, and not even the quietest breeze disturbed the arrangement of porcelain vases, lacquered screens, and hovering essence lanterns.

Behind a silken screen — golden-threaded, patterned with phoenix feathers and flowing water motifs — sat a woman whose name was never spoken lightly in the noble circles of the Miran Continent.

Her silhouette was graceful, every movement calculated, as if her very breath could sway court decisions. The room itself seemed to hold its breath in her presence — such was the weight of her elegance, her will, and the invisible authority that radiated like the warmth of a concealed sun.

She was the mother of Mizune Stormvale, one of the wives of Patriarch Rakel Stormvale, and a woman whose alliances echoed far beyond the Wind Blossom Clan, Lady Mizuki Ashiyuna

Kneeling before her was the messenger she had sent — a man of discipline and care, his blue kimono still dusty from travel.

"Did you deliver the letter?" she asked.

Her voice was soft, but lined with iron.

"Yes, my lady," the man replied. "I reached the clan compound without issue."

"And what did that pathetic boy say?"

"I did not see Young Master Vern. He did not come out. I delivered the letter to his personal guard… who said the boy is currently in isolation training and must not be disturbed under any circumstances."

A pause followed.

It was not quiet — it was pressure. The weight of a silence sharpened by pride.

Then a soft scoff came from behind the screen.

"Isolation training?" Her tone was amused, but bitter. "That runt? Since when did he start ignoring his elder ?"

The flick of her fan echoed sharply.

"He should have stepped out. He should have received the envoy properly. I writes a letter, and invite him, this is how he answers?"

The servant bowed lower.

"Forgive me, my lady… the guard said his orders were strict."

"Of course they were," she snapped, her voice still composed. "Suddenly the pathetic child thinks himself important — because he somehow returned alive."

There was a long silence. Then, in a colder voice:

"Tell my daughter worry about that matter I will take care of myself. he values arrogance more than respect, he should learn the consequences of ignoring his betters."

The woman behind the screen shifted slightly, but even the movement exuded the poise of someone who had ruled from behind veils her entire life.

"Let him train. Let him believe in this rise of his."

The candle beside the screen flickered. For a breath, it seemed the very shadows recoiled from her.