At the same time Nathan was dragged into his illusion, Uriel was seized by shadows of his own. The palace rose around him, vast and merciless, its marble floors gleaming like ice, its pillars stretching into a sky that seemed too high to reach. He was six again, small and uncertain, standing in the grand hall where the emperor’s sons were tested for spirit roots.

  Servants whispered in the corners, their voices sharp as knives. “Seductress. Bastard. Low?born wretch.” They spat the words at his mother and at him alike, mocking her for daring to capture the emperor’s gaze, branding him before he was old enough to understand.

  The emperor’s other wives were worse. When no one was watching, they struck his mother with words and hands alike, bruising her spirit and bruising her body. They sneered at Uriel, pinched his arms, and shoved him into walls, whispering that he was nothing but a bastard born of lust. His mother endured it in silence, her smile fragile, her embrace the only shield he had.

  Then came the awakening at six years old. White flames flickered in his veins, brilliant and pure, marking him as the bearer of a spirit root unlike any seen before. The elders gasped as his qi surged uncontrollably, and in that instant he stepped directly into the first stage of Qi Condensation. Ordinary prodigies at his age were still tempering bone and marrow, yet Uriel’s qi had already condensed into his dantian, skipping the mortal stage entirely. It was unheard of; no child had ever entered cultivation so young.

  Even among the emperor’s sons, none had ever advanced so quickly. His awakening was not just rare—it was unprecedented, a miracle that defied the natural order.

  When they tried to measure the grade of his root, their instruments failed. Unlike the seven known grades, which measured strength within mortal limits, this designation stood apart. It was not a grade at all, but a recognition that his root existed beyond the system itself. In the end, they could only give it a name whispered in awe and fear: Legendary Grade. A root said to reshape destiny itself, but one that drew envy like fire draws moths

  The brilliance should have been salvation, but it was a curse. Courtiers gasped; the duke proclaimed him extraordinary, destined for greatness. His father’s gaze was proud, heavy with expectation. For a moment, Uriel believed himself chosen.

  But envy had already taken root. His siblings watched with narrowed eyes, their mothers whispering poison into their ears. His mother was mocked more viciously than ever, her presence diminished, her son branded a threat to their ambitions.

  The illusion dragged him through duels arranged not to test his skill but to humiliate him. His brothers struck him down with deliberate cruelty, their triumph measured not in victory but in his pain. He saw his mother weeping in silence, her body trembling from punishments meant to break her spirit. He remembered the day she collapsed, lips stained with poison, her trembling hand reaching for him as her strength failed.

  “I love you, son. Stay strong.”

  Her final words echoed like fire in his chest. He had thought it was illness, but the illusion replayed the truth: his elder brother’s mother had poisoned her, and she had confessed it with a smirk. The scene burned into him, guilt pressing like iron chains. His brilliance had drawn envy like a blade, and that envy had killed her.

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  The palace shifted. He was older now, dragged into the throne room, his flame root shackled, branded as dangerous. His siblings stood above him, their mothers smiling in triumph, their victory carved into his humiliation. Guards struck him down, his fire sputtering, his dignity stripped away.

  When he came of age, a faction was placed in his hands—not a gift, but a burden. It was meant to secure him, yet it was riddled with spies and traitors. The illusion replayed the moments when his own men turned against him, bribed by rival queens, bullied into treachery. He saw blades raised against him by those he had trusted and saw the faces of protectors who died shielding him from assassins. Every betrayal was replayed, every drop of blood shed in his defense staining his hands with guilt.

  The illusion pressed harder. He saw himself crippled, his body wracked with pain from a failed breakthrough sabotaged by a traitorous servant. At the critical moment, when his qi was surging to breach the next sub?realm, a disturbance shattered his focus. His meridians ruptured under the strain, his dantian convulsed, and the backlash tore through him like fire and knives. He should have died from the brutal qi deviation, but by some miracle—perhaps the resilience of his Legendary Root—he survived.

  The palace replayed the agony: nights of fever that burned like molten iron, trembling hands clutching at sweat?soaked sheets, the taste of bile rising in his throat. He saw the smirk of his siblings, the cold satisfaction of rival queens, their triumph carved into his suffering. He felt the helplessness of being left under their whims, unable to complain, unable to resist, his brilliance shackled by envy and betrayal.

  Then the poison returned. The vision replayed his mother’s final collapse—her hand reaching, her breath fading. He saw himself frozen, too young, too weak, and too helpless.

  But this time, voices rose over the silence. At first it sounded like his own, hollow and merciless: “It’s your fault. You drew envy. You killed her. You were never wanted.” The words cut deeper than any blade, branding him with guilt he could not escape.

  Then came another whisper, curling like smoke—the voice of his elder brother’s mother, mocking and triumphant: “Bastard child, cursed flame. Your brilliance was her death. You should have been erased.”

  The illusion pressed both voices together until he could no longer tell which was his own guilt and which was her malice. The condemnation became a chorus, heavier than any chain, binding him in despair.

  It was at this point Nathan woke from his illusion and saw Uriel curled on the floor, screaming in pain. Without hesitation, he rushed to him. Following the marble’s instruction, Nathan injected qi into Uriel’s body, forcing the illusion mist from his system to bring him back to reality. Yet even after the mist was expelled, Uriel remained shaken, broken, and screaming.

  “It’s alright, young prince. It’s just an illusion.” Nathan tried to comfort him.

  “I… I killed her,” Uriel stammered, his voice fractured. “It’s because of me my mother died. I’m a bastard… good for nothing.”

  “Snap out of it.” Nathan slapped his face lightly, then gripped his shoulders. “Look at me.”

  Uriel trembled, his eyes lifting slowly to meet Nathan’s.

  “It’s not your fault, you hear me? If anyone is to blame, it’s those wretched wives of your father and your siblings. You are not a waste, nor a bastard. You have every right to live in this world like everybody else. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And if they do, tell your big brother—I’ll smack their mouth shut.”

  Nathan’s words carried weight because he had seen it all. The palace mist had shown him Uriel’s torment just as Uriel had glimpsed his own. Nathan knew the poison, the humiliation, and the voices that branded him unwanted—and so he spoke not as comfort, but as someone who understood. Their wounds had been laid bare to each other, a bond forged in torment.

  Uriel didn’t believe the words, not fully, but he nodded anyway as tears streamed down his face.

  “I promise,” Nathan whispered, “those who made my little brother cry will pay someday.”

  Uriel clung to him and wept. Whether Nathan’s words were true or not, he wanted to believe them. More than that—it was the first time in a long while someone had been real with him. Not duty-bound, not false courtesy, but real. And he didn’t know what to do with that truth.