The next two weeks blurred by, and I spent the first few days recovering my strength. Then I sat down to consider my future. It was surprising to find that I felt a good deal stronger after I’d recovered—though I should have expected it. Cultivators gained power when faced with difficult odds—or so the movies said, and I’d seen more adversity than usual. As a result, I keenly felt that my Soul Seed's roots had grown thick. Like a nest of tangled hair.

After the first few days, Ma forced me to stop lounging in my room—She badgered me to attend school. If I spent too long in the house, she always got on my case.

It was funny, if I was out and about even with the school reporting my absence, she let me be. But if I took a couple of days of rest? That’s when she got worried. Wasn’t sure if it was her way of looking out for me, or scared to start a confrontation. Since our dad died, she’d kept Alex and me close, but was afraid to press too deeply into our lives. Like we’d withdraw.

As long as I left the house, and acted like my normal self, she let me be. I walked Alex to his school—an annoying trip without spirit chips to afford the bus. But we made do. Wasn’t the first time we walked a couple of miles, wouldn’t be the last.

After letting my kid brother off to his classes, I’d find a quiet place to hole up to let the day flow by. Often taking a couple of hours to window gaze bike shops and take in the beauty on display. Or longingly lurk near gambling dens, wishing I had chips to bet. Mostly though, I wandered and let the road pass by under my feet.

Each day brought me closer to myself than before, a little less nervous Tristan would break the rules and come after me or my family. I really got to thinking about why I’d joined the Brass Kings. Soul Seeds drew conflict, like a bee to honey, or so they said. Some were lucky and had a valuable Soul Seed that followed a tranquil enough path which allowed them to rest in peaceful atmospheres to meditate on their Dao. And that was enough for them. But among the gangs, the typical cultivator usually had a Dao that needed that edge of danger. I can’t speak for others, but doing anything other than following the desires of my Soul Seed left me feeling dull, and out of focus. It made a boring desk job and school a living nightmare.

I owed it to my family to pursue my cultivation. I’d been born with a leg up on all the normal mortals. I’d struck it lucky to them, who would spend their entire life wondering how far they’d have got if they were given the same gift. It made me feel like if I wasn’t doing something with my blessing, I was spitting in their face. As big of a curse or blessing that it actually was.

Romeo didn’t let me be and was the first to break me out of my depressive state. Spontaneously showing up and taking me from the house late one Friday night. Ma let him get away with it. Though, this time he didn’t drag me out of the city, but instead to his high-rise condo in Downtown. I followed him to his world, impressed first by the expensive line of cars stashed in the underground parking lot. Further blown away as we reached the lobby—marble flooring, statues of Immortals, fancy artwork in old-world euro-style. I had no frame of reference for the wealth on display. Yet my Uncle acted as if it was nothing, escorting me through the lobby to the elevator.

Right to his condo. If you could call it that—the entire space dwarfed my Ma’s house. Just walking into the main room took my breath away, windows spanned the length of the entire wall, providing a downright disgustingly beautiful view of New Valentine. The skyline was a splay of neon lights and gorgeous buildings, backdropped by the ocean. Even the Himawari Sect’s compound was in sight—a beautiful Sect compound taking up an entire island off the coast, miles long.

The rest of the condo was just as impressive. Two floors, three bedrooms, and three bathrooms. A kitchen flush with shining cutlery, a dining room with a maple table. Lastly, a room with a wooden floor and soul-hardened walls, sparsely populated with weights and training equipment arranged around its edges, and a mirror taking up a whole wall. Romeo’s gym.

After the tour, we settled into the gym. Romeo tossed me hand wraps before securing his own. “Well, well, passerotto, you’ve healed quickly, no?”

“What can I say, easy to bounce back.” I sighed, wrapping the black fabric around my knuckles and wrists. Mirroring what I saw Romeo do. I’d never used these goddamn things before, and it seemed almost silly to waste time securing them in place, just to save our knuckles some bruising.

“And? Now that you’ve had time, what have you reflected upon from our lesson?” Romeo tilted his head and gave a small smirk.

“I learned how to throw a better punch. That what ya looking for?”

“Cultivation is more than throwing punches, Luca.” He chided softly, before violating his point by throwing a practice punch into the air. Effortless. His flow of muscle and body was as smooth as a flowing river, cutting through space as if he were in a dance. “Your Soul Seed requires just as much care and understanding as fighting. Physical strength feeds it, yes, but that is not all passerotto. Both I and your father learned this the hard way. I hope his son shall not suffer the same.”

I paused, stiffening. “My father had a Soul Seed?”

“It is often passed through blood, no?”

“I’d thought… someone else had it, maybe. Grandfather, or, I don’t know—something. Why wouldn’t Ma mention he was a cultivator?”

Romeo shrugged before lashing out with a vicious kick, his whole body following the arc of the foot. His center of gravity did not shift an inch, despite the quick and abrupt movement, before returning to a calm standing position. “It is not my place to spill your mother’s secrets. But rest assured, it is through him you have one as well. I’d hoped Alex would’ve been born with one too, but it appears not. Still, we deal with what is present here and now. So I ask again, passerotto, what is your anima?”

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“Gambling,” I said, squaring my shoulders as I finished securing the hand wraps. Romeo stalked closer, a grin on his face.

“Ah, to be so young, and to be full of folly. I wonder if me and your father were as annoying when we were your age.”

Fuck him. I’d had enough talk about my Pa. He was a hole in my life that everyone tip-toed around. The more we’d danced around the topic the more bringing it up pissed me right the fuck off. And Romeo’s constant comparisons—I wanted to bash his face in to get him to stop talking about it.

So I did, launching myself at him and throwing a wild punch. He flowed away with ease—just out of reach of my fist before his leg snapped forward and caught me in the stomach. I grabbed my midsection, stumbling away, but he followed through giving me no time to recover, throwing even more precise kicks.

Unlike in the swamp, he was holding back. It still hurt, but there was a distinct difference as he withdrew the bite of the impact. Did that mean he wasn’t taking me seriously? Romeo danced away from each of my attempts to hit, before ducking in with a kick or sideswipe I didn’t expect. It was annoying. I was unable to predict which angle the man would strike from—his stances swapping too rapidly and smoothly to tell. He transformed into the perfect position to counter or attack, depending on what he needed.

I was unable to match him with pure strength, so I turned to my Soul Seed. Rubbing the sweat off my face and activating Fickle Fate. Blue sparks surged from my palm to my face, a wild grin took my face, and Romeo pulled away. I chased, full of confidence with luck now backing me.

Yet for each step I took forward, he took two back. That liquid lightning running through my veins withered to nothing. Unspent and unused, since I couldn’t close the distance. I stopped in place as the last bit left my system. Romeo turned on a dime, somehow sensing the shift, and dished out a roundhouse to my cheek, flinging me to the floor.

“Do you see now, passerotto?”

“Ya, I see you’re a fucking cheat!”

Romeo shook his head sadly. “Soul Abilities—like a Manifested Soul, have a range. There is always a way to counter a Manifested Soul or Soul Ability, it requires knowledge and tactical thinking. Though, in this case, countering yours is rather straightforward. Avoid when blessed with luck, and you cannot use it. It is why when it backfires—your instinct is to backtrack and flee, no? Easy to spot. If I can, then your enemies will as well.”

I worked my bruised jaw. A headache from the multiple blows. Didn’t feel good to have your face bashed in. “What’s the solution then?”

“Two-fold. Experiment with range. And contemplate your anima, instead of bold assertions of what it isn’t. Stop being so pig-headed and you will find more power, no?” Romeo tapped the side of his head.

I scowled and refused to acknowledge what he said. Romeo ran me through several more bouts, forbidding the use of Fickle Fate. He told me not to bother with it against him until I understood it better. Eventually, we shifted gears from sparring to actual technique training. I gained a loose understanding of his stances, and the effortless jabs he produced. And quickly understood they were the products of years of training and directed effort.

The way his fighting flowed from one position to another, it was a style of practicality and adaption, rather than the ornate and almost theatrical fighting I’d seen from recordings of the Sects. No real beauty to it, aside from how it shifted effortlessly. He stressed the ability to adapt to a fight more than anything else, and I realized with clarity that I was far out of my depth. A bit prickled when Romeo laughed at my failed attempts and claimed my father would roll over in his grave if he knew I fought like I had two left hands.

At the end of the session, he arranged training three times a week, when possible, claiming sometimes things might come up for him. After I reluctantly agreed, he drove me home and bid me to consider my Soul Seed more.

The next week was similar—wandering by day, occasionally the nights were broken up by Romeo grabbing me for training. I ignored the messages from Kayson, as I fumed and boiled and pictured the various ways I’d rip Tristan apart when I grew stronger. Hating that little bit of fear of the psycho that still burned in me, unable to forget the sight of him ruthlessly plunging that knife into Captain Till, again and again.

But I was forced to ask myself, was Tristan stronger than me? He had the resolve to betray the Brass Kings in the name of advancing his agenda. Ruthless. If he was willing to do whatever it took to get stronger, how could I catch up and get my revenge? Did I have to sink to the same level of brutality?

I went down a dark road, and the last week I avoided speaking to Ma or Alex. No friends to turn to, so I spent all my time alone, giving up my daily walks in favor of constant training—even without Romeo.

Push-ups, jogging, and practicing the stances I’d learned. Slow progress but it was productive and made me feel just a bit better about my current situation. Though, I easily dismissed exploring my Soul Seed further in favor of physical conditioning. Gambling drove its development, no matter what Romeo said. If I were to become an Immortal, I supposed I’d be the Immortal of Gambling.

After all, every Immortal was known by the path of their Dao. The Immortal of Wisdom, Immortal of Space, and even the Immortal of Tranquility. Some were a bit more obscure—such as the Immortal Strategist of Warfare—but those that ascended to living gods embodied their Dao.

I doubted they ever struggled to understand their path, after all, was there really much to not understand about tranquility? Even I got the gist of it. They were simple concepts, and wasting time looking deeper into my own when I knew what it was, would be a mistake. Instead, I’d spend that time throwing myself into the ideal environment for growth. Anytime I brought that up to Romeo, he dismissed me as juvenile. Eventually, he forbid me from bringing up the topic and told me that when I reached my bottleneck that I’d ‘see’ what he meant.

The end of the week came swiftly, leaving me with a final decision. I could attempt to avoid the Seventh Division—flee from the Brass Kings. Pursue my own goals. That’d open me up to retaliation from the Seventh Division, as I’d be deserting them, and it’d give Tristan the freedom to go after me. I doubted the Seventh Division would try to punish me, everyone knew they were incompetent. Part of me welcomed Tristan to attack, to pit myself against him with the chance of winning or losing. The Seventh Division limited my ability to lash out against that psycho fucker, just as much as it stopped him.

Kayson called me at the end of the two weeks, and I stared at the phone. I should just leave them, quit the Brass Kings, and make cash elsewhere. This dumb-ass gang had never done me any good. As Romeo said, family and duty mattered above all else. Still… I answered the phone, confirming that I’d meet Kayson at their ‘spot’. I hung up and grabbed my Brass King jacket—a missing patch where my Fourth Division identifier had been. An ugly space on the black and brass jacket. I let out a sigh. Maybe… Maybe things would be different this time.