The woman laughed softly, a bright, cheerful sound that filled the quiet diner.
“Whoever told you that was far too generous, but I won’t complain!
What are you in the mood for?”
Julian glanced at the digital menu overhead, though his stomach had already made the choice for him.
“I’ll take the house special—the double cheeseburger with extra grilled onions, seasoned beef, and a side of crispy potato wedges.
And an iced tea, please.”
“Coming right up,” she said, tapping the order into the kitchen display.
“Take a seat anywhere you like.
I’ll bring it out as soon as the patties are off the grill.”
Julian nodded, but instead of walking away immediately, he let his curiosity get the better of him.
“Excuse me, ma’am…
I couldn’t help but notice the name on the sign outside.
Are you Mrs.
Turner?”
“I am,” she replied, looking up with a soft smile.
“Judith Turner”.
“I…
heard the name around,” Julian lied smoothly, keeping his voice light.
“I believe I might go to school in the same general administrative zone as your son.
Ceres, right?”
At the mention of her son’s name, Judith”s expression softened into something deeply affectionate, though a tiny flicker of motherly worry crossed her features.
“Ah, Ceres!
Yes, that’s my boy.
Though if you know him from school, you might not have seen him much lately he just came from the planes.
He’s…
well, he’s a quiet boy.
Spends a lot of time by himself, studying or resting.
He hasn’t had the easiest time with his martial training, poor kid.
But he works hard in his own way.”
Julian felt a strange, absurd urge to laugh out loud.
*A quiet boy who rests a lot.* If Judith Turner knew that her “quiet boy” had just fractured a man’s leg into splinters and threatened to cave in a thug’s skull with his bare hands, she would probably faint on the spot.
“He’s definitely quiet,” Julian murmured, keeping his voice perfectly neutral.
“But he seems to have a lot of hidden depth.”
Martha smiled, a hint of maternal pride lighting up her eyes.
“You’re very sweet to say so.
He’s been looking a bit different lately, to be honest.
More…
grounded.
Ever since he came back from his last hunting expedition.
it feels like he’s grown up overnight.
Anyway, let me get that burger started for you before you starve!”
“Thank you, Mrs.
Turner,” Julian said politely.
He turned around and selected a quiet booth near the back corner of the restaurant, where he could keep his back to the wall and observe the entrance—a habit drilled into him by years of security training.
He slid into the leather booth, resting his chin in his hand as he stared out the window at the passing street traffic.
His mind spun with the events of the evening.
Sector 9 was suddenly feeling a lot less boring than it had an hour ago.
*Ceres Turner…
whatever he calls himself,* Julian thought, a genuine, excited smile spreading across his face.
*He broke my grip effortlessly.
He moves like a veteran who has survived a hundred battlefields.
And he’s hiding it all under the guise of a weak, low-tier graduate.
*
Next week, when he goes to the Mystical Planes , Julian knew where he was going to look.
The regional entry teleporters for Sectors all had random placements across the plane but he had a feeling that they would meet again.
“We’re going to cross paths again ,” Julian whispered to himself, his fingers lightly tapping a rhythmic beat against the table.
“And when we do, I’m going to see just how deep that pool really goes.”
A few minutes later, Mrs.
Turner walked over carrying a red tray loaded with food.
The burger was massive, glistening with melted cheese, juicy beef, and freshly caramelized onions, accompanied by a basket of golden-brown wedges and a tall glass of iced tea.
Be careful, the plate is hot,” she said warmly, placing the feast down in front of him.
“This looks amazing, Mrs.
Turner.
Thank you,” Julian said, his mouth practically watering.
“Enjoy!
Let me know if you need anything else.” She gave him a gentle nod and walked back toward the kitchen counter.
Julian picked up the burger, taking a large, deeply satisfying bite.
The rich flavor of seared beef and savory sauce exploded on his palate, far superior to the bland, scientifically optimized nutrient pastes and spirit-infused broth he was forced to consume at the estate.
He chewed happily, closing his eyes for a second to savor the simple joy of street food.
“Ah…
absolute perfection,” Julian muttered, wiping a bit of sauce from the corner of his lip with a napkin.
“Who needs elite private chefs when you have this?”
“I am glad to hear that you approve of the local cuisine, Young Master Julian.”
A voice, dry as sun-baked parchment and quiet as a falling leaf, resonated from the seat directly across from him.
Julian instantly froze.
His hand, halfway through lifting a potato wedge to his mouth, halted in mid-air.
The casual, relaxed posture he had maintained evaporated in a millisecond, replaced by a violent jolt of pure adrenaline.
His Qi surged instinctively through his meridians, his muscles tightening as he snapped his head up to face the intruder.
Sitting calmly in the booth opposite him—a second burger, identical to Julian’s, held neatly in his calloused hands—was a middle aged man.
He wore a tailored, charcoal-gray suit that looked pristine despite the late hour.
His hair was silver-white, slicked back with military precision, and his posture was so rigid it made the wooden booth look like a throne.
His gray eyes, sharp and cold as icy steel, were fixed intently on Julian.
It was Marx.
The chief steward of the Feng-Kowalski family.
A man whose true cultivation level was an absolute mystery to the younger generation, but who could casually level a city block if given the command.
Julian stared at the man, his mouth slightly open, a piece of potato still clutched in his fingers.
“M-Marx?” Julian choked out, his aristocratic composure cracking completely.
“How…
when did you…”
“I sat down approximately four seconds ago,” Marx replied smoothly, taking a neat, measured bite of his burger.
He chewed thoroughly, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with a linen handkerchief he had produced from his breast pocket.
“A bit heavy on the sodium, but the structural integrity of the bun is commendable.”
Julian slumped back against the cushion, letting out a long, defeated sigh.
He rubbed his temples, feeling an instant headache blooming behind his eyes.
“I used a military-grade sensor scrambler.
I took the underground utility ducts.
I even left a heat-signature decoy in my quarters!”
“A very creative effort, Young Master,” Marx said, his tone entirely devoid of sarcasm, which somehow made it worse.
“The decoy was quite convincing.
It successfully simulated your breathing pattern for precisely eleven minutes before the thermal regulator overheated and set fire to your bedsheets.”
Julian’s eyes widened.
“Wait—it caught fire?!”
“The automatic suppression system extinguished it immediately,” Marx noted calmly.
“However, your father was mildly displeased by the smoke damage to the hallway rug.”
Julian buried his face in his hands, groaning softly.
“I’m sixteen next week, Marx.
Can’t I even buy a burger in peace without a shadow-guard watching my every bite?”
“If the Young Master wished to buy a burger in peace, he could have simply requested one,” Marx said, picking up a potato wedge with absolute elegance.
“Instead, you slipped into a low-tier commercial district, entered an alleyway, engaged in a verbal altercation with a youth of unknown background, and nearly exposed your martial identity to the public.”
Julian’s hand froze over his face.
He slowly lowered his fingers, his blue eyes sharpening as he looked at the old man.
“You saw?”
“I am your steward, Young Master Julian.
Where you go, I exist,” Marx replied simply.
“I observed the entire interaction from the roof of the convenience store.”
Julian leaned forward, dropping his voice to a low whisper so the other patrons wouldn’t hear.
“Then you saw him, Marx.
Ceres Turner.
The boy from the dossier.”
Marx lowered his burger back onto the paper wrapper.
His sharp, stern eyes locked onto Julian’s.
For a moment, the steward’s mechanical, emotionless demeanor shifted, replacing itself with a faint, discerning glint of serious interest.
“I saw,” Marx admitted quietly.
“I channeled enough force to immobilize a standard 3rd Stage Qi Condensation cultivator, and he slipped out like it was nothing!
His body control…
his instinct…
it isn’t something you learn in a high school physical education class.
Marx, what’s going on with his file?
Did your intelligence team mess up?”
Marx was quiet for a long moment.
He slowly reached into his suit jacket, pulling out a slim, glowing data-pad.
He tapped the glass screen a few times, glancing at the scrolling lines of blue text.
“The intelligence reports on Ceres Turner were compiled three months ago,” Marx said softly.
“At that time, the subject was undeniably frail.
His energy veins were blocked, his physical constitution was weak, and his psychological profile indicated severe passivity.
The data was accurate.”
“Then how do you explain what I just saw?” Julian demanded.
“A man doesn’t transform from a punching bag into a lethal weapon in three months!”
“There are several possibilities,” Marx said, locking the data-pad and placing it face down on the table.
“A sudden, miraculous awakening of dormant bloodline talent.
An encounter with an ancient legacy hidden in the regions of the planes.
Or…” Marx paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, “…he is no longer the person listed in that file.”
Julian felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Young Master, that the world is vast, ancient, and full of anomalies that exceed standard Federation metrics,” Marx said, his voice dropping into a solemn tone.
“The Mystical Planes hold secrets that even the eighteen Aristocrat Families have yet to fully comprehend.
Souls, inheritances, and ancient martial wills—stranger things have occurred in our history.”
Julian stared at the old steward, processing the heavy words.
The initial thrill he felt in the alley returned tenfold.
A hidden monster.
An anomaly living right under the noses of the regional authorities.
“Is he dangerous to the family?” Julian asked quietly.
“He showed no malice toward you,” Marx noted.
“In fact, despite his aggressive posture toward those street thugs, his intent remained entirely focused and contained.
He did not kill when he easily could have.
He possesses remarkable self-control for someone of his physical age.”
Marx picked up his iced tea, taking a polite sip.
“Furthermore, he is in the Mystical Planes .”
Julian raised an eyebrow.
“You know that for sure?”
“He is resident to Star Origin Fort.”
A broad, genuine smile broke across Julian’s face.
He picked up his burger and took another massive bite, suddenly feeling much better about the ruined bedsheets and his father’s ruined rug.
“Star Origin Fort,” Julian grinned, wiping his hands.
“It seems my first trip into the wilderness isn’t going to be a boring hunting trip after all.”
“Dont hold too much hope as first entry into the plains are purely random”.Marx watched the young master with a stoic expression, though a faint, almost imperceptible softening appeared around the corners of his sharp eyes.
He had watched Julian train until his hands bled, pushing himself to the absolute limit to escape the stifling shadow of his family’s name.
The boy needed a rival—someone who didn’t care about the Feng-Kowalski crest, someone who would push him not out of duty, but out of sheer martial truth.
“Do not underestimate him, Young Master,” Marx warned gently, taking the final bite of his burger.
“If my observations are correct, the young man in that alley has walked through hells you have only read about in textbooks.
If you face him in battle, do not expect your status or your higher Qi reserves to carry you to victory.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Julian said, his eyes burning with a fierce, competitive light.
“Next week, Marx.
The Mystical Planes.”
“Yes, Young Master,” Marx said, rising smoothly from the booth and adjusting his cuffs.
“Next week.
But for tonight…
you will be returning to the estate immediately to apologize to your father and pay for the bedsheets out of your personal allowance.”
Julian’s grin instantly collapsed.
“Marx, come on!
I’m an aristocrat!”
“An aristocrat who pays his debts,” Marx replied calmly, gesturing toward the door.
“After you, Young Master.”