Ti’Lee sat up. “Elder Shinye.” He nodded toward the man in a gesture of respect. “With your permission, I would like to show you something I’ve been working on.”

He looked up from the scroll, raising his white brows. “Oh?”

“I promise it relates.”

He chuckled, placing the scroll on the table. “Go on.”

“With your permission, may I stand? It would be much easier to present it that way.”

“You may.”

Servants pulled Ti’Lee’s chair back before he stood up. He reached into his satchel, mouth buzzing, tongue numb. His fingers were freezing, and his hands felt like ice, but they were nothing compared to the frigid gauntlet. It was made of essium, a metal that conducted spiritual energy.

When he pulled it out, he held it up for the room to see. His focus was on Elder Shinye, but he could see the people in his peripheral vision. Dra’Lee had stiffened noticeably, face growing so red, it looked as if he could cough blood. That made Ti’Lee’s jaw chatter, but Dra’Lee couldn’t stop this. He couldn’t! No matter how mad he got. Elder Shinye outranked them all. If he was willing to see Ti’Lee’s invention, they all had to.

“See,” Ti’Lee said, pointing to the hanzi. “It took me weeks to etch this onto the palm . . .” And months to get the circle and the triangle right. They needed to be absolutely perfect, or the defensive capabilities wouldn’t work.

He slipped the glove onto his hand. He flexed his clawed fingers, making sure the gauntlet was secure. In that brief moment of silence, staring at the product of his budding genius, his heart calmed.

He focused on his spirit core, which was the size of two fists put together. He was a Silver—the third level—so it was brim with maqi.

Cycling maqi to his arm took an instant of concentration. The spiritual energy buzzed in his meridians, flowing to his armored hand. It diffused from his skin, and into the gauntlet. Mist-like heat haze hovered from the metal as the symbols on the palm glowed.

The teachers from the school leaned forward, watching with eager anticipation. Elder Shinye looked unimpressed. Father and Mother sat with straight backs, sweat glistening on their foreheads. Father’s murderous scowl demanded he sit down, and stop the presentation. If only he knew what he was about to see! Ti’Lee was convinced it would change the man’s stubborn mind.

But if it didn’t . . .

He took a deep breath, ignoring the possibility.

“Will one of you attack me?” Ti’Lee asked.

Everyone but the elder flinched—instead, the man smirked.

Good, Ti’Lee thought. At least he didn’t look bored. “Sorry, not me. The gauntlet.” Ti’Lee held it up, splaying his clawed fingers. When he forcibly cycled maqi into the glove, the symbols on the palm shone bright. Haze continued leaking from the metal. If the gauntlet had been fully formed, that wouldn’t be happening.

The teacher with the black braid looked to the elder, who nodded his approval. The black-braided man stood up, adjusting his robes. “Attack the gauntlet?” he asked.

Ti’Lee hesitated, then nodded. “Don’t hold back.” In order to make a good impression, the attack needed to land hard.

The black braided teacher raised a fist in front of his face. He raised his pointer finger and middle finger, pressing them together. Golden light, like a small sun, shone through the fabric covering his belly. The luminescence spread through his veins, and when it reached his eyes, they burned like tiny stars.

Ti’Lee bit his lip.

Call it off, the coward in him whispered.

No! he shouted back. It was too late for that, anyway.

The black braided teacher’s hand glowed. “Ready?” he asked, gold mist trailing from his mouth.

Ti’Lee swallowed, throat dry. “Do it.”

The teacher thrust his pointed fingers forward. A lance of concentrated light shot from his fingertips, blasting against Ti’Lee’s gauntlet with an explosion of blinding light. Ti’Lee stumbled back and tripped, landing on his rump. His metal hand trembled, growing warm. He rubbed white light from his vision, then looked upon his gauntlet.

It was shuddering.

Shuddering, but unharmed.

A smile spread across Ti’lee’s sweaty face.

He hurried to his feet, displaying the miracle. “You see!” He gestured to it. “Attacked, but unharmed.” Spiritually enhanced armor wasn’t unheard of. The soldiers guarding their territory wore plate that protected them against malignant spirits and maqi-enhanced attacks. But their armor only protected them from warriors, monsters, and soul artists one rank above their own level. This black braided teacher was at least a Mid Gold Core, two levels above Ti’Lee.

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Two!

Was there any armor within the empire that could protect a soul artist from someone two ranks up?

He held up his shivering, gauntleted fist in triumph. He still wasn’t able to face his father, so he smiled at the elder. The man was picking up a ball of rice with chopsticks and placing it in his mouth.

Ti’Lee flushed, lowering his fist. Where are my manners? he thought. Bow. I need to bow! Then he’d explain the miracle of . . .

His trembling gauntlet was pulsing with golden light.

Huh?

He opened his clawed grasp. The hanzi characters were glowing brilliantly. Light was diffusing across his palm. And the metal was growing unbearably hot.

“Son!” Dra’Lee finally snapped. “What—”

The gauntlet exploded, throwing Ti’Lee back. Bits of metal sliced his face, cracking the lenses of his glasses. His back slammed into something hard.

He blinked, seeing nothing but bright golden light, his ears ringing. Distant shouts echoed around the room, sounding so far away.

“Ti’Lee?” a panicked voice sounded in his ear. “Ti’Lee?”

The blinding light slowly faded from his eyes. He was sitting on the marble floor, with his back against the mahogany door. His tailored vest was sliced, his hand burned and bleeding.

Maqi was pulsing through his meridians, flowing to his injured hand. Translucent vapor trailed from his cuts as they slowly closed back up. He’d been a Silver for years now, cultivating maqi and vital aura to establish his spiritual foundation. One of his tutors, a body cultivator from the Blooming Lotus sect, helped him develop a Lotus-Blessed Silver Body—one with remarkable regenerative aspects.

He looked over to find Roasha crouching next to him. The servant’s face was blanched, concern written all over her expression. “Ti’Lee? Are you—”

“Ti’Lee!” his father roared.

Ti’Lee’s blood froze. Cringing, he looked toward his dad.

Dra’Lee was standing, his sweaty face purple with rage. “Get up!”

Roasha helped him to his feet, giving him a spectacular view of the mess he made. Bits of his gauntlet were scattered across the table, stabbing into the polished surface like tiny spears. Puddings, cakes, and pies had splattered across the warzone, looking like the entrails of a gutted enemy. One of the teachers was smothered in red, mrenberry pie. The other braided man was only speckled with dessert. His lips were clamped tight and he trembled. He seemed to be trying very hard not to laugh.

“Bow to the elder. Now!” Dra’Lee shouted, pointing at Ti’Lee.

Ti’Lee dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the marble, cheeks burning with shame. Tears stung his eyes, threatening to emerge, but he would not cry.

“Elder Shinye, forgive my son’s antics, he should have never pulled out that stupid toy.”

That stabbed Ti’Lee’s heart. A tear dropped to the marble. If his gauntlet had worked, his father would have marveled at the marvelous workmanship! He would have allowed him to pursue what he loved.

He would have!

Dra’Lee was talking. “. . . did not know anything about this. He—” He stopped talking. Ti’Lee didn’t know why, but frankly, he didn’t care. He wanted nothing more than to slink off, hide under a rug, and die.

“Your son is undoubtedly educated,” Elder Shinye said. That was an unexpected compliment. “But he is immature.”

That’s about what he expected.

Ti’Lee pressed his face into the marble, hating himself.

“In three months, the school will administer its entrance exams. During that time, I expect your son to put off his childish fantasies. Spiritsmithing is for peasants. A person of his standing should be ashamed for what happened here tonight.”

Self-pity was eating Ti’Lee from the inside. Words like Stupid and Ridiculous and What did I tell you? were bouncing through his skull.

“Which scholar is he training under?” the elder asked.

“Ren Ranar,” Father said.

“Has he taken over any of Ren’s responsibilities?”

“Nothing of note,” Father said. “He cleans the lore vault, organizes the scrolls, then studies in his free time.”

“He obviously has too much of that. Triple his workload. I don’t want him meddling in activities that would spoil the Lee name.”

“Yes, Elder.”

“Thank you for dinner.”

Ti’Lee kept his face pressed against the marble as the teachers and the elder of the School of Rising Sun exited the room. Servants shuffled around, cleaning up the mess he made.

An oppressive presence stood over Ti’Lee, radiating with a familiar rage—an expected rage. One he’d dealt with all his life. Ti’Lee tried to close up his spiritual senses, but he didn’t have a good handle on them. Instead, he allowed the negative aura to saturate him. Choke him.

A hand seized his collar and yanked him to his feet. He kept his head bowed. “How long has this been going on?” Dra’Lee whispered, voice edged like a deadly knife. “Hm?” Ti’Lee had kept his passion a secret for years, but crafting the gauntlet was a recent thing. Before he could say so, his father shoved him toward the door. “Escort him to his room,” he commanded a maidservant. Ti’Lee glanced at her. It was Roasha. “Find anything related to spiritsmithing—books, tools, anything—and throw it away!”

Ti’Lee felt the glare of his father on the back of his head. A hand smacked him on the side of the skull, sending him to the marble. Maqi surged to his temple, buffering the pain, healing the bruise.

Ti’Lee grabbed the back of his head, curling up into a ball. When he heard hurried steps stalking away, he risked a glance. Father and Mother were striding toward a door on the opposite side of the room, speaking in harsh whispers.

Roasha helped Ti’Lee to his feet—again.

He nodded his thanks, chin quivering.

She guided him through the mahogany door, and into the hall, leading him to his room where, together, they’d trash everything related to his stupid, stupid dream.

You should have never shown them, the coward within whispered.

I know . . . Ti’Lee bowed his head, and silently wept.