[Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don’t belong.] — Mandy Hale

Unbeknownst to anyone, Azar discreetly drew a flying knife from his storage ring. Activating its runic pattern with his mental power and flux, the knife became invisible to the naked eye, slowly rising into the air as Tariq continued speaking.

“He isn’t suited to lead the tribe or have a family, but there’s no doubt he’s the strongest flux-weaver in this tribe. Unfortunately, he’s grown indifferent to everything, so I’m not sure what good that strength is,” Tariq finished, ignoring his son’s displeasure.

“The day will come when you understand the purpose of my power,” Parash said coldly, ready to end the conversation and retreat to his tent.

“So, you’re still a virgin?” Azar asked nonchalantly.

Tariq’s eyes widened in shock while Parash froze, turning back with a malicious glare.

“Did I strike a nerve?” Azar asked again, unfazed.

Parash’s smile turned icy. “Do you think I won’t do anything to you if you dare insult me? I’m not afraid of your friend.”

Parash took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Azar. But he stopped abruptly, a sharp pain in his neck. Looking down, Parash saw a slowly materializing blade just below his chin.

“Azar Syed,” Tariq interjected, but Azar paid him no mind.

“I have no need for my friend to deal with someone of your caliber,” Azar said, controlling the knife with precision, forcing Parash to lift his chin. “Just to be clear, I didn’t insult you earlier; I simply asked a question. If you took it as an insult, that’s your problem.”

“Hah.” Gathering his flux, Parash unleashed his full power, attempting to push the knife away and regain his dignity. However, despite the force that pushed both Azar's feeble body and Tariq back, the knife remained in place, even digging deeper into Parash’s flesh, right after.

Parash had a stronger cultivation then his elder brother Mohul, however, for some reason, his control over the flux was weak, unable to even stop the advance of the flying knife who penetrated his flux shield and skin through a single point.

Feeling warm blood trickling down his neck, Parash clenched his jaw, swallowing with difficulty.

“Syed,” Tariq said again, concerned for his bleeding son.

“Even though this body of mine is young, I have some advice for you,” Azar said, stepping closer to Parash with confidence. “Stop being a hypocrite. You claim not to fear what Araumir will do to you if you harm me, but you’re clearly afraid of death. Your father says you’ve detached from everything and become indifferent, yet you’re clearly troubled by the fact that you’re still a virgin. Even if you’re a genius in cultivation, how far do you think you can go with such frustration and unresolved issues festering inside you?”

Parash remained silent, his gaze filled with malevolence.

“Your mind has led you astray, diverting you from your true path. If you want to progress further in cultivation, you must understand and acknowledge that I’m right,” Azar explained. “And what’s so important about this spot that you can’t relocate? I need space to train all of you. If it were just for me, a simple corner would suffice.”

Saying this, Azar activated his [Spiritual Prception], gazing inside the tent.

"Parash, you have decided to turn a deaf ear to what happened in the tribe and only learn the little information that transpired to you. Now, you'll have to listen to me. Azar and Araumir Syed saved the caravan and the lives of your brother and nieces. They saved Mohul once again from the poison and-"

"That's why are you so unwilling to change places?" Azar cut short Tariq's words with his question, finding praise unnecessary. "Because of this little gathering formation?"

Both Tariq and Parash switched their gazes on him. Having different meanings though. For reasons personal reasons, Parash became angry that his secret had been found.

He had obtained the blueprints of this Low Grade Flux Gathering Formation from the time he and his brother followed their father with the caravan, and worked for more then one year to decipher, gather the ingredients, and draw the seals for the formation.

"Don't be afraid, i will not steal something that is actually harmful for the body," Azar said, recalling his knife and letting Parash breathe freely. "I don't know how you've obtain the knowledge to make this formation, but it would've been better to not lay your hands on it."

"Speak all you want," Parash said defiantly. "I won’t listen. You just want to take this for yourself. You are not my friend."

Azar turned his back on Parash, his voice steady and firm. "You're right; I am not your friend. Someone who disregards their own well-being has no right to call themselves my friend."

Azar then addressed Tariq, "Let him stay where he wants. I've changed my mind. I will train all of you outside the walls. There's enough space for everyone, not just a select hundred."

Tariq’s face lit up with excitement. "Syed, are you really allowing the entire Mirha tribe to train with you? If you're saying this out of anger, please reconsider. I'll speak to my son and make him apologize."

Azar's tone remained calm and measured. "Tariq, do people usually choose to help more when they're angry? Don’t worry; an apology is only needed when someone has done something wrong. Your son neither said nor did anything wrong; he only expressed his opinion. I can't be angry at someone’s opinion, can I, Tariq?"

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At that moment, as Tariq looked at Azar standing there with dignity—hands behind his back, a calm expression on his face—he felt it. This young man carried himself with the poise and confidence of someone far removed from the tribes. The sight of Azar reminded Tariq of the proud nobles he had seen in the kingdoms.

"Azar Syed is right," Tariq said, lowering his head in acknowledgment, a gesture that left even Parash astonished. He had never seen his father act like this before. "If Azar Syed chooses to help our tribe as he did for my eldest son, I have no objections."

"Good," Azar nodded. "Prepare a tent where I can cultivate in peace. Tomorrow, at the first light of dawn, have your tribe ready outside the main gates. I will teach you "The ways of the sand", the same foundation that served the Tora Clan more than two thousand years ago."

"Do you really know "The ways of the sand"?" Tariq asked in surprise. For something like that to still be known to the real world, to exist outside the tribe's lore...

Azar remained silent, staring at the old man without a trace of doubt on his face.

Tariq bowed his head, clenching his jaw as a surge of emotion welled up from deep within him. "Syed, I have already prepared your tent," he said. "Come with me."

As they walked towards the rocky outcrop where a larger-than-usual tent was set up—spacious enough for both cultivation and martial arts training—Parash was left alone, a bitter taste in his mouth.

He smirked at what he perceived as the arrogance of both his father and the stranger. He retreated to his tent to resume his cultivation, trying to calm his unsettled mind. Azar’s earlier words still lingered, stabbing at an old wound.

. . .

"How is it, Syed?" Tariq asked after presenting Azar with his new quarters.

"It’s better than I imagined," Azar replied truthfully.

"I'm glad you like it," Tariq responded. "Allow me to apologize again for my son’s behavior. He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."

"If it eases your mind, I accept your apology," Azar said, "but I’ve already told you, I’m not angry or offended by his words or actions. If I were, you’d know it—I would have punished him. If I were hurt, I would have retaliated. But that’s not the case. I’m not so childish as to be insulted by so little. If anything, I pity your son, Tariq. He clearly has a gift for cultivation, yet he’s harming himself in the process."

"Syed, is the formation you spoke of really harmful to him?" Tariq asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Why would I lie about this, Tariq? I have no reason to deceive you," Azar explained. "From what you’ve said, I gather you knew nothing about this formation?"

"That’s correct," Tariq admitted, looking down, feeling betrayed by his son’s secrecy. "Could he consider us his enemies?"

"No, I don’t think that’s it," Azar said thoughtfully. "He’s likely afraid—afraid that if you knew about the formation, you’d want to use it too, and perhaps even share it with Mohul and his children."

"But isn’t that how a family should work?" Tariq asked. "Shouldn’t we share everything with one another?"

Azar gave him a long, measured look. "Tariq, have you shared everything with your sons and wife?"

Tariq fell silent, his thoughts weighing heavily on him.

"Even within a family, some things are best kept private," Azar continued. "But in this case, if Parash were thinking clearly, he could have limited your access to the formation. Even with just two hours a day, your cultivation would have improved over time. However, it might be better that he’s the only one who used it. Otherwise, you might all end up like him."

"What do you mean?" Tariq asked, his concern growing. "How exactly is this formation harmful?"

"It poisons the mind," Azar said bluntly. "It’s true that the formation helps gather more energy for the body to absorb. But any formation should have a way to filter or cleanse the energy before it enters the body. The formation he’s using lacks both."

"I don’t fully understand," Tariq admitted, causing Azar to sigh in frustration.

"The purpose of gathering formations is to attract more flux for the body to absorb," Azar explained. "But everyone knows there are different types of flux in the environment—different elements and paths. A proper formation should filter the energy it attracts. Without that filter, all types of flux, carrying various information such as death, pain, and suffering, will be absorbed into the cultivator’s body."

"Are you saying that Parash has absorbed harmful energies into his body?" Tariq asked.

"That’s exactly what I’m saying," Azar replied. "The flux of death alone is enough to influence and harm a cultivator who doesn’t know how to purify and balance it. Now imagine your son has absorbed every type of flux that exists in the surroundings, creating a chaotic mixture inside him. Without the ability to filter and purify this energy, he can't distinguish between what is beneficial and what is harmful—so he consumes it all, both the nourishment and the poison."

Tariq’s voice trembled slightly as he mumbled, "What has Parash done to himself during these years?"

"Without a deep understanding of formations and a keen sense of self-awareness, it was impossible for him to realize the dangers he was exposing himself to," Azar explained.

"Is there anything that can be done?" Tariq asked desperately. "Do you know how to help him, syed?"

Azar placed a hand on one of the wooden pillars supporting the tent, feeling its rough texture.

"There are a few ways," Azar said, his voice low. "But none of them will be easy for you to apply."

"Does it matter if it's easy or not?" Tariq asked, determination edging his tone.

"Yes, it matters. If you try to cure him of an illness he doesn't even recognize or accept, he’ll resist with every ounce of his strength. And as his father, do you think you can bear to see him suffer?"

"And if I leave him as he is, what will happen to him?" Tariq asked, the fear in his voice palpable.

Azar turned to face Tariq, his expression serious. "He will be consumed by the chaos inside him, losing his sanity and his ability to sense the flux with each passing day—until, eventually, he’ll die."

Tariq’s eyes widened at the grim prognosis. "Wouldn’t that be even harder and more painful for me to witness?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"I don’t know," Azar admitted, offering a faint smile. "Everyone is different and i don't have the understanding of what you can better endure. Logically speaking, letting your son destroy himself will be more painful to watch."

Suddenly, Tariq dropped to his knees, forcing his old bones to bow under Azar's astonished gaze. "Azar Syed, you saved my eldest son from death by sword and poison. You saved my grandchildren and our tribe. I beg you, save this foolish son of mine as well. Don’t let him rot and die a stupid death with no honor or meaning."

Azar looked down at Tariq, pleased with the turn of events. "Am I to understand that you are willing to submit to me?"

Tariq remained silent for a moment before his forehead touched the dirt floor. "Those in possession of 'The way of the sand' are the rightful rulers of the desert. With the power of Araumir Syed, you could have taken control of this tribe by force," he said. "Instead, you chose to help and save us. Today, I willingly submit to you, Azar Syed. I will follow you through fire and sand. But I can’t give you the Mirha tribe—I’m no longer the chief. I will talk to Mohul, and if he has any dignity left, he won’t oppose you."

"Raise your head," Azar commanded, helping Tariq up. "There’s no need to bow like this. I just want to ensure that you are my allies and friends, nothing more. I have no desire to be chief—I have bigger plans. But I need your trust and unwavering support."

"You have it, syed, you will forever do," Tariq said with a sincere smile. "We are not people who forget a helping hand. We will support you."

Azar nodded. "Try to convince your son to listen peacefully. If he doesn’t, we’ll have to restrain him when Araumir returns."

Tariq nodded in agreement.

"Tell Jarah to see me tomorrow," Azar continued. "Today was busier than I anticipated."

"There’s no problem, Syed. Jarah is available whenever you need him," Tariq assured.

"Good. I’ll also need a barrel of clean water tomorrow."

"Consider it done, Syed."

"Thank you. Have someone bring me something to eat, and then you’re free to go, Tariq."

Nodding, Tariq left after giving a short bow.