"Don't worry about me stalling later," Jason said, voice low but firm. "I'll become strong whether you hand me the answer or not."
*Since you're so confident,* the bracelet replied, dry as ever, *you clearly don't need a spirit like me hovering over your shoulder.*
"I only need a single clue. I'll figure out the rest myself."
*I'm not telling you anything.*
Jason's jaw tightened. "Fine. Keep it."
He pushed himself up from the mat, determined to move, to do something—anything—other than sit still with an unanswered question. The moment his weight settled onto bruised ribs and battered legs, white pain flared through his torso. A short, involuntary sound escaped him and he dropped back down, breathing carefully until the worst of it subsided. The fifth-layer density in his skin and bones was real, but the damage from Andrew's fists had not simply vanished overnight. Recovery would still take time.
He closed his eyes and forced his breathing to even out, already turning the problem of earth energy over in his mind again. Somewhere beneath the ordinary dirt of the camp there had to be a current he had not yet learned to sense. He would find it. He had no other choice.
---
In one of the larger courtyards of the Fox family inner compound, a sharp, undignified yell cut through the morning air.
"Will you stop screaming like a girl and hold still so I can treat this?"
The speaker was a middle-aged man with the same sharp jawline as Andrew, though the years had added weight and authority to his features. Fred Fox worked with efficient, unsympathetic hands, pressing medicinal paste along the dark bruises that wrapped his younger brother's ribs.
Andrew twisted, face contorted. "How am I supposed to stay quiet when you're not exactly being gentle?"
"Your ribs are nearly fractured. Did you expect the recovery to feel like a massage?" Fred's tone was flat. "As your elder brother it's my responsibility to get you back into training shape as quickly as possible. That means this paste goes on whether you like it or not."
Andrew's eyes were wet with genuine pain. "Brother Fred, I can't take much more of this."
"Consider it part of your tempering." Fred smoothed another layer of the sharp-smelling medicine into place. "Who did this to you?"
Andrew's expression shuttered. A thin smile replaced the grimace. "You don't need to trouble yourself over it."
Fred studied him for a long moment, then simply nodded and continued working. When the last of the paste was applied and the bandages secured, he gathered his materials and left without further questions. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Not long after, the rest of the usual group filed in. Dennis took the lead, stopping a respectful distance from the low couch where Andrew reclined.
"Boss—how are you feeling?"
Andrew's gaze was distant. One of the others spoke up before he could answer.
"Who would have thought that outsider could hit that hard? All this time we were pushing him around and he never really fought back."
Dennis shot the speaker a look. "I don't buy that. You saw his eyes the day we were giving his sister a hard time. He wanted to tear us apart. He just didn't have the strength or the guts to try it then. Don't rewrite history."
Andrew's attention sharpened. "Where's Michael?"
"Same as you," Dennis answered. "Still under treatment. His parents won't let him leave the courtyard."
Andrew's fingers tapped once against the arm of the couch. "That brat must have learned some kind of disabling technique. The question is who taught him."
Dennis hesitated. "Boss… do you think one of the elders might have taken him as a disciple in secret?"
Andrew shook his head. "Unlikely. He's not family blood, and his realm was still low until very recently. No elder is going to risk the political headache of formally accepting an outsider with no background."
Dennis frowned, thinking aloud. "It's the speed that bothers me. I remember him clearly at the first layer. It hasn't even been a full month and he's already at the fourth—maybe higher after yesterday. Nobody climbs three layers that fast without help. Forbidden methods, maybe?"
Andrew's eyes narrowed. "You're not wrong. Ordinary cultivation doesn't produce that kind of jump."
Dennis's expression lit with sudden eagerness. "Then we should report him to the family head. Accuse him of using forbidden arts. Even an investigation would ruin him."
"And if they search and find nothing?" Andrew's voice was cold. "We'd be the ones punished for making baseless accusations against someone living under the family's protection, outsider or not. We need proof, not suspicions."
The group fell quiet for a moment. Dennis shifted his weight. "Then how do we get even?"
A slow smile returned to Andrew's battered face. "The tournament."
Dennis looked confused. "How does the tournament help us?"
"Your half-brother is competing, isn't he?"
"Yes. He's been training harder than usual. Says he's determined to take one of the top spots."
"Then we ask him for a favor."
Dennis's expression soured immediately. "That bastard won't lift a finger unless there's something in it for him."
"Then we decide what to offer," Andrew said. "He's entering the tournament for a reason. The stipend the family gives side-branch disciples like him is never enough. He needs money. We supply it. In return, he makes sure a certain outer-camp rat doesn't advance far."
One of the other boys let out a low whistle. "Boss already has it figured out."
Dennis still looked reluctant. "I still think we should find another way. You know what my half-brother is like."
Andrew's smile didn't waver. "I know exactly what he's like. And I know there's very little that enough spirit stones can't buy. The tournament is the cleanest stage. Multiple opponents, public setting, no direct link back to us if something unfortunate happens to the outsider during a match."
The rest of the group murmured agreement. Praise for Andrew's thinking rolled around the room, lightening the heavy atmosphere. Andrew allowed it for a short time, then lifted a hand.
"Dennis. I'm leaving the approach to you. Don't disappoint me. The rest of you—out. I need to rest."
They offered a final round of respectful words and filed from the room. When the door closed and the courtyard beyond fell quiet, Andrew leaned his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling beams.
The dull, deep ache in his ribs pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He could still feel the exact moment the outsider's fist and kick had landed together—the shocking density behind both strikes, the brief white flash of genuine danger.
"Let's see," he murmured to the empty room, "whether you even reach the finals after what you did to me."
Outside, the Fox family compound continued its ordinary morning routines, unaware that a quiet, expensive arrangement was already beginning to take shape against a boy who had only just started to stand upright.