Chapter 9 Jasper's Rite of Passage Part 1

After four painstaking years of tireless refinement, the man finally managed to optimize the child's body to its utmost capacity. The child, now brimming with spiritual qi down to every muscle fiber, every meridian, every soul strand. The boy in theory even stronger than his father, a Martial Artist in the Mid Stage of the Practitioner realm, someone who had cultivated Innate Aura.

Intriguingly, this intensive refinement had a byproduct. It gave the man a substantial degree of control over the child's body. The manipulation of spiritual qi had the potential to entirely command the child's bodily functions if he wished to do so.

However, reality proved to be far from his anticipations. A twist of fate ensured that he could never truly wield this control. Approximately a year prior, he had conducted an experiment, filling all the child's meridians with spirit qi, intending to seize control of the physical form. In a sense, the attempt was successful - he could move the child's arms, legs, and body at his will.

Yet, the seemingly triumphant experiment had a catastrophic outcome. As soon as he exerted control over the child's body, the child's soul trembled and exerted an enormous counter-pressure. This unexpected resistance felt like a looming shadow of death, as if a stern warning from the universe against his overreach. The sheer intensity of the sensation made him abandon his fantasies of total control - a dangerous gamble that threatened to cost him his own existence. He believed that this pressure came from the child's soul itself, like it was going to collapse.

Now, confined within the child yet unable to seize control, the man found himself in a precarious situation - a spectator in a life he had no reins over, and a life that, ironically, was his only lifeline.

"Mphm, well this is quite annoying," the man mused quietly, a hint of dread creeping into his tone. "It seems that my grand dreams of controlling this body and being reborn are just that – dreams. It is as if the universe itself is warning me to know my place. A thousand years of wisdom and yet, I feel like a frightened child in the face of this predicament, this is pathetic." With a moment of pause in between thoughts "Do I really have to wait till this kid is in the Nascent Soul realm before I can take over this body. But by that point he will be strong enough to resist..."

His voice echoed in the silent darkness, laced with resignation. "I cannot do much. Forcing my will upon the child's body... it's an act akin to playing with fire. One wrong step and I might just be reduced to ashes. Maybe I should try to cultivate for the boy? If I do, then the kids' life will be completely in my control."

He paused for a moment, deep in thought. "No, I cannot risk it. This boy, this world, they are still too unfamiliar, too uncertain. To reveal myself now... it would be tempting fate. I must bide my time."

With a resolute sigh, he made his decision. "I shall hide the spiritual qi. Let it blend into the child's body, let it become an undetectable undercurrent. Until I understand this world and its rules, I shall remain a silent observer."

***

In his silence, the man observed this world, its customs, its traditions. An air of anticipation hung heavy as the fifth year of the child's life approached. The village, usually calm and quiet, was abuzz with excitement. A grand ceremony was to take place, the naming ceremony of the chief's son. As the man looked through the boy's eyes, he could feel the thrill of the villagers, their excitement contagious.

For the villagers, a name was not just a label. It was a rite of passage, a reflection of one's personality and potential. Parents would observe their child for five long years before deciding on a fitting name, a name that captured their spirit, their essence. Such was the tradition, a tradition that now stood at the doorstep of the boy who housed the man's soul.

As the child of Cline, the village chief and a respected figure in the surrounding regions, this naming ceremony was more than just a village event. It was a regional spectacle, one that attracted the attention of many neighboring powers. The small village teemed with visitors, some out of respect, others out of curiosity, and a few with hidden intentions.

From the young boy's perspective, the day of the celebration was a confusing whirl of color and noise. Early in the morning, he was roused from his peaceful slumber and dressed in unfamiliar clothing, its material rich and finely woven, a stark contrast to his usual simple garb. Grant, a man who had been a comforting constant in his life since his earliest memories, helped him navigate the strange ritual.

"Come now, young master," Grant coaxed, helping the boy into his ceremonial robes. Despite the grandeur of the attire, there was a gentleness in Grant's touch, a familiarity that eased the boy's unease. The Grant smiled warmly, his eyes gleaming with an affectionate light as he assisted the boy. The boy, in return, held a deep fondness for the man who had always been his protector and companion.

But, as they left the quiet confines of his home and entered the bustling crowd of the village, the boy felt a shiver of apprehension creep up his spine. The village, usually a familiar landscape, was transformed into an unrecognizable panorama of vibrant colors and cheerful cacophony. The streets were filled with throngs of people, some he knew, others complete strangers. The air was dense with chatter and laughter, the strong scent of festival food and the blare of music overwhelming his senses.

Despite his anxiousness, the boy clung to the comforting presence of Grant, who walked steadily beside him, his familiar figure a pillar of reassurance amidst the overwhelming spectacle. Grant sensed the boy's trepidation, offering him a comforting smile and a squeeze of his small hand. "Remember, you're the son of Chief Cline, and this village loves you. You're not alone," he reassured, his voice a soothing balm in the pandemonium around them.

Taking a deep breath, the boy nodded, gathering his courage. The closer they came to the ceremony stage, the louder the crowd seemed to roar. His heart pounded in his chest, fear, and excitement intertwining in an adrenaline-fueled tangle. Finally, they arrived at the location of the main celebration, the village square transformed into a grand amphitheater. There, at the center, stood his father, a figure of strength and serenity, waiting for his son to join him.

With a final reassuring pat on his back from Grant, the boy stepped forward. His tiny figure might seem insignificant in the grand scheme of the village's hustle and bustle, but to him, it felt as though all eyes were focused on his every move.

As he stood there, the gazes of the multitude washing over him, he couldn't shake the sense of dread that prickled at his skin. For all his father's status, he was but a five-year-old boy thrown into a world far larger and more complex than his short years could comprehend. His previous existence had been one of safety and solitude, the attention and scrutiny he now faced was alien and intimidating.

His father, sensing his distress, offered a comforting grip on his shoulders. He leaned down and murmured in his ear, "It's okay. Don't focus on the crowd. You don't need to say anything, just look into the distance. Before you know it, it will all be over." His father's voice was a calming balm, a beacon of reassurance that seeped into the boy and eased his worries. Taking his advice to heart, the boy redirected his gaze, his focus shifting from the expectant crowd to the distant stone walls of the village.

Those walls, imposing and new, were a testament to his father's tireless efforts. He remembered the day his father had proudly shown him the first completed section. He spoke of how they were unique to their Spring Village, of how remarkable that was. But he had been too young to truly understand those words then. Now, however, he felt a spark of comprehension kindling within him.

As he looked at the gathering from a higher vantage point, an awareness seeped into him. These people were here for him. They had made the journey, endured the discomfort of travel, just to be here for his ceremony. Recalling the jostling ride to the Martial Hall in his father's carriage, he couldn't fathom anyone choosing to undergo such an ordeal willingly. But here they were, a testament to his importance.

He glanced up at his father, his gaze brimming with newfound understanding. His father's calm and determined expression reflected back at him. And in that moment, he made a decision. He wanted to be like his father. He put on what he believed was a brave face, mirroring his father's expression. His stomach was still fluttering with nervous butterflies, but his heart was full of resolve. It was the first step towards his new identity, a moment that filled the young boy with a sense of pride and determination. He was going to be like his father, strong and admired, a figure to be celebrated.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his father straighten, clearing his throat as he prepared to speak. The noise of the crowd fell to a low murmur, anticipation hanging heavily in the air. This was the moment they had all been waiting for, the defining point of the ceremony that had brought them together.

"Villagers of the Spring Village," his father's voice rang out, strong and clear, "neighboring friends, esteemed guests, thank you for honoring us with your presence today. This is a day of great significance, a day that marks the naming of my son."

He felt the grip on his shoulder tighten slightly, the warmth of his father's hand seeping through his shirt, a comforting anchor in the midst of the swirling excitement. He found himself holding his breath, his young heart pounding with anticipation.

"And today," his father continued, his voice echoing through the silence, "I give my son his identity. A name that symbolizes hope, strength, and a promise for a bright future. A name that stands for our village's growth and prosperity. A name befitting a boy who means more than the world to me."

The next moment seemed to stretch into eternity as his father paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before finally landing on him. His father's eyes shone with a mix of pride and love that made his chest swell with happiness.

"Today, my son will be known as Jasper," his father announced, his voice carrying the weight of his declaration. "A name meaning 'treasure', for he is indeed a treasure to us all."

The crowd erupted into applause, the air filled with their cheers and well-wishes. Jasper, still gripping his father's hand, felt his cheeks warm with pride. He liked his name. Jasper, a treasure. He would strive to be worthy of it. He would make his father proud. He was Jasper, the son of Cline, the treasure of Spring Village.