Within the heart of the Zhenlong Pavilion, the air hung in a state of divine stillness.
Soft lamplight glowed against lacquered beams etched with dragon motifs, the golden shimmer of runic threads tracing faintly along the walls. The fragrance of spiritual herbs mingled with the delicate sweetness of peach blossom incense, each wisp of smoke curling upward in slow, reverent spirals—as though afraid to disturb the moment.
Yet beneath the tranquil warmth of the chamber, tension pulsed like a taut bowstring. Even the most hardened warriors in the household felt it pressing against their hearts.
The newborn rested in the crook of Second Wife Ruolan's arms, wrapped in layers of pale silk so fine they caught the lamplight like water. Her hand brushed gently along his cheek in the tender rhythm of a mother coaxing a response. But the child neither stirred nor cried.
General Wuhen stood just behind her, posture iron-straight, facing the man before them—his great-grandfather, the War Saint of the Eastern Dominion, Zhenlong Yansheng.
Yansheng's bearing was calm, but his eyes—those ancient silver-gray depths—held a sharpened gleam, unblunted despite decades of seclusion.
Wuhen bowed low, voice solemn.
"The birth was smooth… until the final moment. As the child crowned, a sudden wind tore open every window of the birthing chamber. Then—"
He paused, the memory still vivid in his mind.
"—a beam of golden light entered the room. It pierced Ruolan like a divine thread sewing itself into fate."
Yansheng did not interrupt, but the air between them thickened.
"The child was born immediately afterward," Wuhen continued, his tone dropping lower. "From that moment—no cry, no movement. His breath steady, his pulse strong… yet his meridians are unlike anything our physicians can recognize."
The War Saint's brow gave the faintest twitch.
"No reaction. No feeding?"
"None," Wuhen said. "But he lives… as though waiting."
Yansheng's gaze deepened, and he stepped forward.
"I will inspect him."
His advance was unhurried, each step sending a faint vibration through the wooden floor—an intent not meant to intimidate, but to honor the unknown he was about to meet.
Stopping before Ruolan, his gaze fell on the infant. The child lay perfectly still, a faint halo of golden warmth glimmering around his tiny frame. His lips parted slightly with each quiet breath, the rise and fall of his chest so delicate it could have been the ocean's own whisper.
Yansheng lifted a hand. Spiritual light bloomed at his fingertips, ready to send a gentle probe into the child's inner world.
But before his hand could touch—
The infant's fingers twitched.
His eyelids fluttered.
And then—slowly—they opened.
The air in the chamber shifted, as though the world itself had leaned closer.
Yansheng's breath froze.
Within the child's gaze was not the soft darkness of a newborn's eyes—but two golden swirls, each turning with slow, inevitable grace. Stars traced their orbits within. Constellations moved like living script. In each pupil lay a vastness—galaxies caught in miniature, the stillness of Heaven and Earth gazing back.
And in that instant, time cracked.
The chamber dissolved around him.
The murmurs of servants, the scent of incense, the pressure of the walls—all vanished.
He stood barefoot on a boundless, mirror-like ocean, its surface reflecting a sky of infinite black. Across that sky drifted rivers of golden script, entire constellations moving in patterns older than memory. This was no dream. This was a soul.
From behind him, a voice spoke—soft, steady.
"…Welcome, Ancestor."
Yansheng turned.
A figure stood upon the mirrored sea, cloaked in radiant gold. Long hair flowed like molten sunlight, each strand shifting as if in a breeze that did not exist. His robes were woven from light itself, the fabric glimmering with every movement.
The eyes—calm, timeless—left no question. This presence did not merely belong here. It defined here.
Alter.
He smiled faintly, an expression of quiet certainty. His voice carried an echo—youth layered over something far older.
"I've been waiting for you."
Yansheng's jaw parted, but no words came. His knees locked, the weight of realization setting into his bones.
This was not a child.
This was something far older than the walls of the pavilion, far greater than the bloodlines of the Zhenlong clan.
"…Who…" The War Saint's voice cracked in the vast stillness. "Who are you?"
Alter looked up into the black-gold sky for a long breath before meeting his gaze again.
"I am your descendant," he said softly.
"And I need your help."
The inner world was silent—an eternal expanse of golden sea beneath an unbroken vault of starlit sky.
The water's surface was glass-smooth, glowing faintly from within, as though the ocean itself was lit by the breath of creation. Above, constellations drifted in slow arcs, their light tracing endless, deliberate paths.
Zhenlong Yansheng stood upon that glowing mirror, his gaze locked with the radiant figure before him. Alter stood with his hands folded behind his back, posture perfectly balanced—not in the way of a ruler asserting dominance, nor a warrior guarding himself. His presence was one of complete stillness, the stillness of an eternal mountain—immovable, but without hostility.
The War Saint's throat tightened. His voice came low, the timbre strained against the weight of what stood before him.
"…You—this child—what are you?"
Alter's eyes softened, as if he had been waiting for the question since the moment Yansheng stepped into this place.
"He will be fine," Alter said gently, his voice a calm ripple over still water. He gestured to the sea beneath them, and the surface stirred. "The child's body—my body now—is being nourished by my residual essence. I'm stabilizing his soul, his flesh, his energy."
At his words, the sea rose and shaped itself into a luminous diagram—a human silhouette woven from lines of living light. Within it flowed a meridian system, but one unlike any Yansheng had ever seen.
Where every cultivator's chi network revolved around a single core in the lower dantian, this one held three—each glowing with steady brilliance. One at the lower abdomen, one in the chest, and one between the brows.
"The meridians have been redesigned," Alter explained, his tone even, unhurried. "Not by force, but by growth. Tempered before birth, etched into him by divine resonance."
He traced a finger through the golden image, each movement releasing subtle pulses of power."Three Core Wells instead of one. Three independent channel circuits. What no cultivator in this era has dared to attempt, I have woven into him by will."
Yansheng's lips parted, but the words dissolved before they could form.
"I have ensured the child will grow normally," Alter continued. "His body will be strong—stronger than any born in this age. In time, his potential will eclipse sect heirs, sword prodigies, even those chosen by the Dao itself."
His gaze lifted toward the light-scattered sky."He will become a hero among heroes… should he choose to walk that path."
Yansheng found his voice, though suspicion edged it."…Why?" His boots shifted slightly on the water's surface as he stepped closer. "Why do this? Why hide in a child's body instead of acting openly? You carry strength beyond my comprehension—yet you… seal yourself away. What is your purpose?"
Alter's shoulders eased, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then—
A sigh. Long. Heavy. Almost human.
"Because I am tired, Ancestor Yansheng."
The golden sky seemed to dim around the words.
"I have fought gods. Demons. Entire realms. I have bent fate, and been bent by it in turn."
When his gaze returned to Yansheng, the War Saint saw it—a weariness so ancient that even the light within those golden eyes could not fully hide it.
"I want to rest," Alter said simply. "I want to watch. To see this boy—this version of myself—grow free of my burdens. To walk his path without divine politics, without abyssal schemes, without the chains I carried."
Yansheng stood motionless, the ocean's reflection trembling faintly around his boots.
Alter stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was warm—not burning with power, but weighted with the calm of countless ages.
"Go back. Tell them the child will live. Say nothing more. Tomorrow… I will explain the rest."
Before Yansheng could speak, the golden sea began to spiral, light curling upward into a column of script and sigils. The starlit sky fractured into radiant shards—
And the world inverted.
A pulse struck through Yansheng's spirit like a temple bell. His vision slammed back into the birthing chamber.
The lamplight. The scent of peach blossom incense. The rustle of silk.
He staggered one half-step before his footing caught.
"Ancestor!" Wuhen was suddenly before him, voice sharp. "Are you hurt? You were frozen for nearly a full minute!"
Ruolan clutched the child tighter, her eyes searching his face. "Did you see something? Is he—?"
Yansheng's gaze fell on the infant in her arms.
Still. Serene. Breathing softly.
But now Yansheng knew.
That presence had been no illusion.
He cleared his throat and straightened his robe, letting his expression return to stone. "I'm fine. The child is in no danger. His pulse and meridians are stable… though unfamiliar to your physicians."
He looked around the room, meeting every gaze. "I will return tomorrow. There is something I must confirm."
Wuhen bowed deeply. "We will prepare a quiet room."
The First and Second Wives bowed as well, relief softening their faces. "Thank you, honored Ancestor."
The tension in the chamber slowly unraveled, like a bowstring easing after the shot.
Yansheng turned toward the door. His stride was steady. But his hand at his side trembled ever so slightly.
In all his years as a general, as a sage, as a cultivator—he had never encountered anything like this.
And deep within, he knew one truth with absolute certainty.
This child's story… would change the world.
Soft golden sunlight streamed through the silk-curtained windows of the Zhenlong Pavilion's inner chamber, spilling over lacquered floors polished to a mirror sheen. Outside, cranes called faintly from the distant lake, and the soft ringing of wind chimes drifted in with the morning breeze, carrying the scent of peach blossoms and mountain air.
Inside, serenity cloaked the room—but beneath it lingered an undercurrent of quiet tension.
The newborn lay swaddled in pale silk, resting in the arms of Lady Ruolan, Second Wife of Wuhen Zhenlong. She gazed down at the boy with a gentle smile, fingertips brushing over his cheek. His small lips parted in a faint breath, but there was no cry, no stir—only a calm deeper than sleep, as though the world outside had yet to matter.
At the low table, General Wuhen stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, gaze fixed on the child. Beside him sat Lady Zhenlong Qiruo, the First Wife—elegant in a gown of pale jade silk, her every movement refined. She poured tea into a porcelain cup without spilling a drop, her expression unreadable.
"I still can't believe he hasn't cried once," Wuhen murmured, his voice low. "Even a silent child will cry after birth."
Qiruo's eyes lingered on the infant. "His spiritual qi is… unnaturally still. Not lifeless, but perfectly balanced. It is unsettling, yes—but not dangerous."
Ruolan only smiled faintly, eyes soft as she adjusted the blanket around the boy. "He's strong. I can feel it. He doesn't need to cry to show it."
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind chimes.
Then Wuhen stepped forward, the shadows of the room shifting over his armor. "We should name him."
Qiruo raised her gaze from the tea. "So soon?"
"He bears the Zhenlong bloodline," Wuhen replied, his tone firm. "That name carries the weight of centuries. He should not pass even one more sunrise without his name written into our lineage."
Ruolan's hands stilled. She looked down at the child, her expression unreadable, then back to Wuhen. "And what name would you give him?"
Wuhen's gaze never left the boy's face. "A name worthy of dragons and heroes. One that will be remembered long after we are gone."
He paused, his voice taking on a solemn, almost ceremonial cadence. "…Zhenlong Haotian."
The name rang through the chamber like a temple bell at dawn.
"Hao," Wuhen explained, "for vastness—immeasurable greatness, the boundless sky that shelters all under heaven."
"Tian—for the heavens themselves. The source of fate, order, and celestial mandate."
Ruolan's lips curved softly as she repeated it, almost to herself. "Haotian…" Her fingertip traced along the child's cheek. "Yes… it suits him."
Even Qiruo, ever composed, inclined her head in agreement. "A name that carries the weight of heaven itself. It will serve him well."
And within the golden stillness of the boy's soul—Alter heard it.
The name rippled through his inner world like a seal being carved into the pillars of creation.
Zhenlong Haotian.
In the depths of that sea of consciousness, Alter smiled faintly.
Yes, he thought.
That… will do.