Grisla and Gihren walked together through the streets, Gihren, who walked like he still had strength in his spine, was a walking, talking, iron spike that drove many who wanted to butter up to the young genius on their way. As they swept by the rabid fans, many just wanted to see if the rumors were true, if the boy was the second coming of Gihren’s miracle.

Gihren caught a few glances; individuals in the clan who who’ve remembered that it takes two for an offspring like him. Remembering the Rosewater Exchange seven years back. Nevertheless, his wounds ached as if it was just yesterday. Hell, even the pain of Mira, hasn’t subsided in the least. How could it ever.

A man broke through the crowd, “Chosen Grisla, it’s a welcome sight for you to be—” Only to eat a hand from Gihren’s vigilance.

“Father,” Grisla frowned, “Xinrei’s mad at me.”

“Is it related to the spar?” Gihren made a face at the crowd.

He nodded. “He lost again, but this time in front of his father, I didn’t mean to embarrass him but—”

Gihren’s occupied hand forced another back. “There’s nothing you can do for him. The boy took a loss, and that’s that. Only, it’s his accursed luck that it had to happen on his coronation. Could you imagine the embarrassment he might feel on this day of all days? In front of the other Chosen? Father and Patriarch in attendance?”

“Sorry, father I don’t. Xinrei’s strong, and I’m not too bad myself, I guess. What’s so wrong with the both of us being powerful? Why are they so selfish?”

Gihren sighed. There was a pause between then, and his after coming, as if he had to pick out every letter from a strong current. “If I had the answer to that… many things in my life would be different. Your relationship with Xinrei should be treated with caution from now on. Understand?”

Grisla’s head hung low. “Yes, father. By the way, where’re we going?”

Their steps had taken them way out of the Upper District, past a few intersections and marketplace courtyards. It was at this time both father and son could take a breath. The crowd and the rabid fans were still moths to the flame called the clan’s epicenter; that being said, the crowd thinned to manageable levels. One could enjoy his celebrity in selective bites if he desires. All the while his father can look on and soak up the pride of it.

Eventually, Gihren stopped, and, taking the hint, he did too.

The place was sparse. Moreover, it was an offshoot from an already unpopular intersection, leading to possibly the last circle before crossing over to the Lower District. Indicated most notably by the wear of the pedestrians surrounding, they weren’t dressed like struggling laborers, but they couldn’t say they were also members of a privileged class either. Just, stable. A strange status in this world.

At the center, a fountain; where a lonesome woman played with the water, almost immaturely in fact, but as she was the sole soul besides the two, there was of no concern to Gihren.

Grisla suddenly felt a sense—Gihren’s, wash over him. It wasn’t for him apparently as the rushing wave raced over him and crowded the square. He did this repeatedly, almost like echolocation. While that happened, a coin tossed from his hands landed at the woman’s feet, clinking on the stone as it did. She may’ve been oblivious to their presence, but the sound of coin is never ignored by any mortal.

“You,” Gihren growled, “leave us.”

The woman’s decrepit excuse for a hat dipped; the shadow barely revealed her grin. “No problem, no problem.” Gihren didn’t tell her how fast she had to disperse, though. She made light strides out to the nearest street. The coin in hand would give her about a night’s worth of entertainment anywhere in Leimuth. Just to take a stroll elsewhere.

His father’s attitude was on a definite spoil, but for what reason?

Gihren kneeled. “Grisla…”

“Father, something’s wrong.”

Gihren's face agreed, “With things as they are now, with your talent… being as it is. It’s time for you to know the truth. Your advancement makes me proud son. Really, it does. But if your eyes come too close to the sun—”

Gihren made the ugliest face that a man could show his child. His child quivered underneath it, looking to see if the entity that possessed his father had stolen him for good. But, that own face of Gihren’s transitioned, melted back to the sternness that had always inhabited him. He shot a look someplace, “Lord Patriarch.”

“Gihren. It’s been a long time.”

Neck tilting, “Apologies,” Gihren’s tongue seemed to drink from the same well he drew his stoicism from, “I’ve been busy.”

“So have I,” He walked, “so have I.”

“Good to see you so soon, Chosen.” The Patriarch even showed a deference to Grisla, nodding as required.

Grisla bowed, “My Patriarch.”

The three were sliding on the slope to a silence. Gihren and Patriarch Meng both stared at one another. And the boy ran a finger through his hair, looked for the stars, sometimes straightened up as if they had no notice of his inattentiveness before, drifting over to watching the fountain’s flow. Maybe he thought about what he wanted to wear for the coronation or had not a care spared for any of it. Who knows what went on in that boys head this late.

And still, the two men of generations past, stared. Finally—

“Come with me,” Patriarch Meng said.

Gihren made a step, but the hesitation was clear. A blatant disrespect.

“Hmm? Is there something wrong?”

“No, Lord Patriarch. I just,” he glanced at Grisla, “was preoccupied before. We’re heading back home to get ready for Xinrei’s coronation.”

“Ah yes,” Patriarch Meng said. “That. About it, there’s an issue to be discussed. It’s concerning the seating arrangements. Elder Xue and Chosen Herma are in need of your assistance.”

Gihren couldn’t stifle a twitch; despite it all. The Patriarch himself, came down just to inform him of this?

“Please… excuse me Lord Patriarch but surely that can wait until I finish up with—”

The Patriarch’s voice enhanced itself with bass, “No. I need you now. I need you to do it, now.”

“Father, Lord Patriarch asked of you. Why not have me wait? I’ll be fine, I can pick out the right wear for myself anyways.” Grisla innocently said.

Patriarch Meng smiled. “’Course, your son might have a better sense of fashion than you!” His hand clapped Gihren’s shoulder. “Come, let’s go.”

Gihren, with all that powerlessness, managed to eek out a semblance of a goodbye to his son for a time, giving him instructions on what to grab, what to match, and what time to be back to the Clan Hall. All the while a Patriarch Meng smiled in the backdrop, enigmatically. Before they departed, a last look was given over the shoulder to his son. A departing as if it were to the gallows, but for whom?

Grisla, finally alone, sighed.

“I know father told me to head home an’ all but, I wonder what Bei Mei’s doing right now?” He spoke. It would be quite a boring night if he couldn’t spend his free time doing something that entertained him; training did cross his mind. It made his body ache for a workout. Admittedly Xinrei didn’t offer up much of one earlier. Nonetheless…

Something about father’s words has me not really feeling it.

He couldn’t put a pick into exactly why, or what about it. It muted him like water to the campfire. Instead, he just wandered.

Soon he entered an unfamiliar district, sparse with people yet he caught something to the eye. Grisla’s footsteps slowed. His head turned. The building adjacent to him had a group file out of its doors, the house had each floor’s light turning off like a sequence. But outside, a father and child stood near, smiling. Dressed for the occasion which everyone in Leimuth was back home to prepare, looks as if they’ll be trying to get their seats early before the crowd reaches them. About to turn away, then—a woman joined them too. The little one dove for the woman’s arms.

Grisla’s brows furrowed.

Family.

Then he scurried off when the child waved at him.

He never noticed it, but he was four blocks away from where he and Gihren split. Although there wasn’t a strong heartbeat of crime in these parts, it wasn’t a place where the pious lingered, the seediness, the smell of poverty was on display in these parts. Grisla stepped around a man. This area of the city still counted as part of the Lower District, though if there could, there would be another district to declare the third separation of the city class. The Upper District, Lower District, and… Below Lower.

The Underbelly would be more apt.

And why, is a child of some innocence wandering about on this night, in these parts? If you asked him, he couldn’t give a coherent answer himself. Though, nobody would try him. At least, that’s what he assumed.

Three turns delivered him to a dead-end alley, and he hadn’t even noticed. Till the head bumped against solid brick. He glanced behind him.

“Huh, greetings to you,” Grisla did a curt nod.

It occurred to him he was being followed long ago, ignoring that after a brief search of their strength. Mortals, with only one… possibly being at the half-step of a first cycle. Rather impressive, considering their age as he saw them. The three who blocked his exit smiled, just like he.

“A phree meal, ripe and just walkin’ about withouts a chaperone,” One said.

“Look at ‘im! A young master he be! ‘is clothes ain’t seen a scratch since when!”

Now the bigger one, who obviously was so pumped up Grisla wondered where’d he find the time to keep lifting iron as he did, seemed to force his way into cultivation inadvertently with his physical body. Could call the straight-backed gorilla a pseudo-cultivator. Grisla wasn’t sure at first if he belonged to the clan or not, but looking at him now, he retracted that thought.

Even our servants could put up a better fight.

The Gorilla spoke, “Ay. You leave purse here, never come back.”

His lackeys made a face, “Wait wait! We needs everryythin! Them robes will fetch us a fine good price out here!

“Everrrythin? You sure?” The Gorilla questioned.

“Yes yes!”

He shrugged, “Okay…”

They wanted to rob him? Grisla wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. If that’s the case…

The boy tilted his head, “You sure about this? Really, I’m asking again, are you sure?”

“H-hear that? I’s think he’s scared! Aight, give it up slow boy.”

Grisla shrugged. When they saw that, there was no holding back as the smaller two charged at him, knives equipped. Normally, it would take a release of his aura and maybe a sentence to get the point across. However—

He did a step. Then another, and the first stab and slash were evaded. The idiots, well, being idiots couldn’t see the wall laid before them. And charged again they did.

“Committed, I see,” Grisla muttered. “Should I do this the normal way, I suppose the other idiots around might not even tell. Guess I’ll prove myself here.”

Moving between them as if dodging traffic, Grisla and the two moved in a rhythmic dance with one another. “Boss! I can’t hit ‘im! He’s not playin’ fair!”

The Gorilla growled, “Just. Hit. Him! Or I’ll hit you!”

One of them did a stab again and as expected it penetrated air; this time the man’s other wrist moved. Grisla didn’t hesitate. His aggression was on, seizing it before an accident occurred, held in his grip was a second dagger tainted with an unfamiliar substance. Realizing this, a furnace came alit inside.

The captured man’s face twisted, “M-my wrist! He has my wrist! It hurts!”

Thinking the boy was distracted, his companion tried his luck only to receive a vicious kick to his abdomen. One blow and he was finished. Doing his best shrimp impression in the muck and puddles of who-knows-what.

Gorilla man snorted. “Dey be useless! Useless! Let ‘im go, little one, itss me and you now.”

Grisla shot a glance to him. “Have it your way,” he nearly tossed the grown man double his size into the Gorilla, who shoved his underling away like garbage. The Gorilla’s size was an assured standout in these parts, built like a gladiator-turned-street-urchin, the boy wondered how much a man like him eats to maintain that figure. An idle thought that served him no purpose. Still, he had to wonder.

“Last. Chance.”

“Likewise,” he raised his chin.

And, just like a gorilla too—his war cry—his speedy advance, forced Grisla into a position where laughing himself to death wasn’t a remote possibility. Besides that, the Gorilla’s fist came at him with the power of a cannon, muscle working for victory. Grisla… despite his clear advantages, will not allow a glancing blow to clip him. Nor will he drag it out. It’s time to get home.

He fought like a mortal; forearms upright, shoulders hunched. The rudimentary stance which was effective—against their own kind. However, cultivators are constantly at war with their bodies, mind, and spirit. To that effect, the man was simply outmatched because he fought against someone who bends their definitions.

The Gorilla’s swing left him wide open. Grisla felt like a kid at his birthday—so many presents to open—so many places to strike. His one fist, enhanced with Juva, fired from his shoulder to kill a Gorilla.

There was he, Grisla, who swung. Then the Gorilla, who froze mid-punch. A cough with a jet of blood alongside it narrowly missed the child. He toppled to his knees, fell to his arms, and the final support failed him, abandoning the creature, and allowing his face to touch the ground.

Grisla’s breath escaped him, then—he bowed, with a small smile coming out of the clouds.

“Please don’t tell my father about this. That was fun, though. See ya.”

The boy left a murmuring of wails in his wake.

Down the street, where a nondescript building lay. Past the windowpanes and where a sole table and chair were placed; a woman sat. Her glass was emptied in one swig. The target turned a corner, and then—she stood up.

She grabbed her hat, “Guess it’s time,” and left a familar coin on the table as she left.