Daeryon didn’t move at first. He stood there, staring at his son like the world had shifted beneath his feet.

  Giron, still gripping his blade, shifted awkwardly. His voice came low and uncertain, yet it carried a weight it had never held before.

  “Father… may I ask you something?”

  Daeryon’s gaze sharpened. He gave a single nod.

  “Do you really believe… I could stand at the front one day? That I could carry what you carry?”

  His knuckles whitened around the sword, every word trembling with doubt.

  For a long moment Daeryon was silent. His storm of chi curled inward, heavy yet not suffocating.

  Then he stepped closer, his shadow stretching over his son.

  “You will not be me,” he said at last, his voice slow and deliberate.

  “You will be greater. You are already stronger than I was at your age. When the weight comes to you, you will bear it, and you will not falter.”

  Giron’s chest rose sharply, as if he had been holding his breath for years.

  “…Then I’ll make sure I’m worthy of it, Father,” he said.

  Daeryon’s hand twitched, almost lifting toward his son’s shoulder, but he stopped.

  Instead he gave a small nod, not cold, not commanding, but genuine.

  “That is enough for now. Continue your training. We will speak again.”

  “Yes, Father.” Giron bowed. This time it wasn’t rigid but steady, certain.

  Daeryon turned, his cloak stirring with the morning breeze. I drifted after him, glancing back to see Giron return to his stance.

  His strikes no longer hollow drills, but blows carrying new weight.

  As we left the courtyard, I broke the silence.

  “Daeryon.”

  He glanced at me, his eyes still shadowed with thought.

  “See how good you’ve got it?” I said, my voice firm, insistent.

  “That right there that’s the path. That’s what we have to do. Not orders, not scolding.”

  I insisted “Encouragement. Recognition. You gave him what he’s been starving for, and look what happened. He lit up like the damn sun.”

  Daeryon’s jaw tightened, but the storm in his aura had shifted again. Lighter. Not calm, but steadier.

  “…It is not easy,” he admitted.

  “No shit,” I muttered, softer this time. “But it’s worth it. Every time. That’s how you save them.”

  He exhaled, rough and deep, but he didn’t argue.

  I floated closer, lowering my voice. “Our next stop…” My eyes narrowed. “…is Jarin.”

  At the name of his second son, Daeryon’s shoulders stiffened. His aura pressed heavier.

  “Jarin,” he repeated, as if the word itself were a stone lodged in his throat.

  “Yeah.” My tone sharpened. “The hardest one. He doesn’t hate you. He just feels nothing. That’s what we have to break through.”

  The silence that followed was heavy as iron. At last Daeryon gave a slow nod.

  “Very well. Jarin.”

  And with that, we set our course toward the study once more.

  The study smelled of parchment and ink. Scrolls lined the shelves, their edges worn from obsessive handling.

  In the center, half-buried in a fortress of texts, sat Jarin. His hair hung loose over his face, shadows under his eyes betraying sleepless nights.

  He scribbled furiously into a ledger, lips moving without sound, the scratching of his brush the only heartbeat in the room.

  Daeryon lingered at the threshold. His storm of chi pressed against the air, but Jarin didn’t so much as glance up.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I floated at Daeryon’s shoulder, arms crossed. “He’s not going to move,”

  I muttered. “If you wait for him, you’ll be standing here until your bones turn to dust.”

  Daeryon’s brow furrowed. “What do you suggest?”

  I leaned closer, voice sharp but steady. “Start simple. No commands, no lectures. Ask him to eat with you. Even if he doesn’t talk, your presence is what matters. Just being there is enough to remind him he’s your son, not a stranger haunting your halls.”

  Daeryon’s jaw flexed, but he nodded once. He stepped forward, the weight of his boots echoing across the stone floor.

  “Jarin,” Daeryon said, voice even.

  The boy froze mid-stroke, but didn’t lift his head.

  “Father.” His voice was flat, clipped, like a word uttered by obligation rather than choice.

  Daeryon drew closer, aura steady but restrained. “Join me for a meal.”

  Jarin’s brush hovered over parchment. At last he looked up, eyes wary, uncertain.

  “…Now?”

  “Yes,” Daeryon replied. “Now.”

  For a heartbeat, silence ruled. Then, almost mechanically, Jarin set the brush down and pushed his chair back.

  His movements were stiff, as though the act of leaving his desk was a burden he had to force himself to carry.

  They walked together down the quiet hall, the space between them thick with unspoken weight.

  Jarin kept his hands folded behind him, gaze fixed ahead. The dining chamber felt too large for two.

  Servants placed bowls of steaming rice, cuts of meat, and side dishes across the polished table, then withdrew in silence.

  Daeryon sat at the head. Jarin settled beside him, posture straight, eyes lowered to the food.

  The clatter of chopsticks and the faint crackle of hearthfire filled the void. No words. No glances. Just the ritual of eating.

  I drifted above the table, frowning. This wasn’t enough. He was here, yes, but the distance between them was still a canyon.

  “Daeryon,” I whispered, sharper than I meant. “Ask him.”

  Daeryon’s chopsticks froze mid-air. “What do you want me to ask him?”

  “I don’t know, anything. Just… what he feels. Something. Anything.”

  His aura pulsed once, heavy, resistant. But then he set his chopsticks down with deliberate care and turned his gaze on his son.

  “Jarin.”

  The boy looked up, hesitant.

  Daeryon’s voice carried no command, only weight.

  “…What do you feel about me?”

  The words struck like thunder.

  I froze. For a heartbeat I thought I’d misheard him.

  Jarin froze. His eyes widened, his lips parting, then closing again.

  His fingers tightened around his chopsticks until his knuckles whitened.

  “I…” Jarin’s hand trembled. He finally forced words out, his tone flat, practiced.

  “You are… my father. I respect you. I strive to… uphold your name.”

  The words came out like a recitation, too neat, too cold. They echoed like a speech memorized in childhood, not a truth spoken from the heart.”

  Daeryon’s eyes narrowed, storm-dark. His aura pressed faintly, suspicious, but he didn’t cut in.

  I drifted lower, locking my gaze on Daeryon. “That’s a mask,”

  I let out a dry laugh. “You hear it too, he’s not saying the truth. He’s just spitting out what he thinks you want to hear.”

  Daeryon’s jaw flexed. His hand clenched on the table, but I pressed harder, voice sharp.

  “Don’t let him hide. Say it. Tell him what you feel about him. Don’t wait for his answer to be perfect. You go first.”

  Daeryon exhaled, long and rough. His gaze fixed on his son, unwavering.

  “Jarin.” His voice rumbled like low thunder, stripped of softness but heavy with weight.

  “You are my son. My blood. My family. That will never change.”

  The words landed like iron. Not tender, not fragile, but solid, undeniable.

  The silence after was heavier than stone, but it wasn’t empty anymore.

  For the first time, the boy who buried himself in books, who walled himself in silence, stood utterly exposed.

  And Daeryon waited.

  Jarin froze. His chopsticks stilled halfway to the bowl, his lips pressed tight.

  The mask he wore so carefully cracked at the edges. His gaze darted to his father.

  Then down again, like the weight of Daeryon’s words was too much to meet head-on.

  His throat worked, but the words came halting, unsteady.

  “I… don’t know what to say.” His voice was low, almost swallowed by the quiet of the chamber.

  The silence stretched. And in that silence, his face spoke louder than words, surprise, disbelief, something raw struggling to stay hidden.

  Then Jarin stood abruptly, smoothing his robes as if to gather himself.

  “I should return to my work,” he said, voice steadier now, the soldier’s mask sliding back into place.

  He bowed, respectful and distant, too practiced, too neat.

  But as he turned, just before reaching the door, it slipped.

  His lips twitched, not into a grin, not even a full smile, but the faintest curve. Hesitant. Fragile. Real.

  I caught it. Daeryon caught it. And something small, but vital, shifted.

  The blue screen shimmered before me, sharp and undeniable:

  [Daeryon Kang → Jarin Kang: 10% → 16%]

  I exhaled, tension loosening in my chest.

  Not a breakthrough. Not a collapse of walls. But a step. A real step.

  And for Jarin, that was more than I could have hoped for.

  The glow faded, leaving silence in its wake.

  Daeryon’s face was carved from stone, but I knew he’d seen it too. That fleeting smile.

  He didn’t say it, but the storm in his aura told me enough, something inside him had shifted.

  I drifted back, giving him space, eyes lingering on the door Jarin had passed through.

  And then it hit me. That look on Jarin’s face, the hesitation, the disbelief, the quiet crack in his armor.

  I’d worn that look once.

  The memory surged, sharp and heavy.

  My eighteenth birthday. The day when the people in our city revealed their gifts, when destinies bloomed in bursts of fire and steel.

  But me? Nothing.

  No spark. No flame. No power.

  I stood in the middle of cheers and laughter, feeling smaller than I’d ever felt.

  Like the world had already decided my worth. Like I didn’t belong at all.

  That night, alone in my room, silence pressed down until I could barely breathe.

  And then...

  my mother.

  She didn’t scold. She didn’t tell me to work harder. She just sat beside me, her arm wrapped around my shoulders.

  She pushed every poisonous thought out of me, not with words of greatness, but with something simpler.

  Love.

  “You don’t need to be special to be my son,” she whispered, her hand warm against mine. “You already are.”

  And for the first time, I believed it.

  I understood, that my family didn’t need me to shine. They only needed me to be there.

  I swallowed hard, the ache still fresh even now.

  That was all I’d ever wanted. To be loved, not because I was something, but because I was theirs.

  And as I floated in the quiet of the Kang estate, I realized, Jarin was the same.

  He didn’t want Daeryon to only see how talented he is.

  He only needed Daeryon to be there for him.