The winter winds had begun to edge their way into the Zhenglong estate, bringing with them a brittle chill that rattled the courtyard chimes. On this particular morning, the household had gathered in the east reception hall to receive Lord Yanshou, patriarch of a prominent allied family and an old acquaintance of Yuying's. His visit carried political weight—ties between their houses had long been stable, but Haotian's awakening had stirred a renewed interest in "formally acknowledging" the young heir.
Ruolan entered with Haotian cradled in her arms, Yuying and Meiyun flanking her while Jinhai and Yangshen stood to the side. Courtesies were exchanged—formal bows, measured greetings, and the customary tea.
Lord Yanshou was a man of sharp eyes, his every movement deliberate. When Ruolan shifted Haotian into view, the man's expression softened a fraction. "So this is the young master," he said, lowering his head slightly in a rare gesture of respect.
Ruolan offered a polite smile. "Would you like to greet him?"
He stepped closer, leaning in. And then—
Haotian looked up at him.
For a fleeting instant, his dark irises caught the light, flaring with that unmistakable golden shimmer. Not bright enough to blind, but strong enough to feel. Lord Yanshou froze, his breath catching as if a memory had brushed his senses.
Yuying's voice broke the moment, smooth and unhurried. "The morning light through these eaves often plays tricks, my lord. Even my own eyes have appeared strange here."
Meiyun added lightly, "It's the gold lacquer on the beams—it reflects into the face if you stand just so."
Jinhai's steady, almost bored posture sold the illusion further. "If we repainted, it would stop happening, but some of us are too sentimental about the hall's design."
Lord Yanshou straightened slowly, chuckling as if brushing away a private thought. "I see. Then perhaps it was nothing." He offered a faint bow toward Haotian. "May your growth bring prosperity to your house, young master."
The rest of the meeting passed without another flicker of suspicion. When the visitor departed, Yuying gave the faintest nod to the others—crisis averted.
That night, the air was warmer in Ruolan's chamber. Haotian lay asleep in his crib, a silk blanket drawn to his chin.
Ruolan sat by the low table, speaking quietly with her brother, Wuhen.
"He saw something," she murmured.
Wuhen poured tea for them both. "The lord? Perhaps. But he accepted their explanation."
Ruolan's eyes lingered on Haotian's still form. "The ancestors… they're always watching now. Stepping in, speaking for him. It's as though they fear even the breeze might expose him."
"They have their reasons," Wuhen replied. His tone was measured, but there was an undercurrent there—a quiet agreement with her unease.
Before Ruolan could answer, Haotian stirred. His small fingers twitched against the blanket, lips parting as if to make a sound. A soft hum escaped him, but his eyes stayed closed. Within moments, his breathing steadied again.
Ruolan's voice dropped. "Even in sleep… sometimes I feel like he's listening."
Wuhen glanced at the boy. "Or someone else is."
The next morning, Haotian's eyes were clear—dark and steady, without the faintest hint of gold.
When Yuying, Jinhai, Meiyun, and Yangshen gathered privately, their expressions were notably lighter.
"It may be," Meiyun suggested, "that Alter's presence reacts only to the outside. To certain people, perhaps."
"Or certain moments," Jinhai added.
Yuying allowed herself a slow exhale. "Then we watch, and we wait. If it does not appear without cause, the matter may yet remain ours alone."
For now, they believed the light had passed.
But deep beneath that calm, none of them truly forgot the way the air had felt when Haotian's eyes had caught Lord Yanshou's gaze.
In the months following the incident with Lord Yanshou, life in the Zhenglong estate settled into something that looked, at least on the surface, perfectly ordinary.
Haotian grew like any healthy child should—his laughter bright, his curiosity boundless, his energy seemingly without limit. Ruolan often remarked that if she turned her head for even a moment, he would be halfway across the room before she looked back.
The servants quickly learned this was not an exaggeration.
He could be sitting quietly in his crib, babbling at a carved wooden dragon, and the next moment he'd be over the railing—small hands gripping the frame with surprising strength—tumbling onto the floor with a triumphant grunt before scampering off toward whatever had caught his attention.
The estate became his playground.
Sometimes, he would be found in the kitchen, perched on a stool beside the cooks, watching intently as dough was kneaded or dumplings folded. The head cook swore the boy understood exactly what was happening, his eyes following every motion like a student observing a master.
Other times, he would crawl or totter into the training courtyard of Wuhen, where the clang of practice swords rang through the air. He would sit at the edge, clapping in delight whenever a particularly loud clash rang out, completely unfazed by the occasional spray of dust or sand.
The servants were tasked with keeping constant watch over him, but Haotian was quick—and clever. The moment their focus drifted, he would vanish from sight. It was as if he had an instinct for when their eyes turned elsewhere.
When the disappearances stretched into minutes, the lighthearted search would give way to tension.
The servants would scatter across the estate, calling his name, checking every room, every hallway.
And when the mood shifted from nervous to urgent, the ancestors stepped in.
Yuying would appear in the corridor with Haotian in her arms, her calm expression not hiding the steel in her gaze as she handed him to the nearest servant.
Jinhai might arrive from the opposite wing, carrying the boy under one arm like a parcel, his voice sharp as he demanded an explanation.
Meiyun's approach was softer—Haotian tucked against her hip while her eyes fixed coldly on the offending servant until they could barely meet her gaze.
Yangshen, however, was the most vocal, his voice carrying across the courtyard as he reprimanded the entire watch staff at once, making it clear that losing track of the heir was unacceptable under any circumstances.
After each incident, the servants bowed deeply, murmuring apologies, their nerves frayed from the dual pressure of chasing an escape-minded child and enduring the scrutiny of the ancestors.
But the cycle always repeated.
One moment, Haotian would be in plain sight—resting in his crib or playing with a carved toy.
The next… he'd be gone.
Some swore they saw a flicker of a smile on his face when he was found, as though the entire affair was a game only he understood.
And perhaps it was.
For even in these harmless escapes, the ancestors never stopped watching—not just to keep him safe, but because deep down, they all knew: Haotian's wanderings were not just the mischief of a child. They were glimpses of a spirit born for more than walls and halls.
The evening sun spilled molten gold across the Zhenglong estate, painting the tiled roofs in warm amber and sending long shadows crawling across the courtyards.
Dinner preparations were underway in the kitchen. Servants bustled back and forth, their hurried steps and quiet chatter forming the heartbeat of the estate. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a commotion began.
"Where's the Young Master?"
"I thought you were watching him!"
"I—I was! He was right in the playroom a moment ago!"
The panic spread like fire in dry grass. Servants darted into hallways, slid open paper doors, and peered into every corner of every room. The corridors rang with hurried footsteps and the repeated call:
"Haotian! Young Master Haotian!"
One servant swore they saw a shadow flit past the courtyard wall, another claimed they heard faint laughter on the wind. Before long, the entire household was searching high and low, and the ancestors' names were whispered nervously in case they decided to intervene.
Meanwhile, far above the frantic search…
Haotian sat cross-legged on the curved ridge of the estate's highest roof, a tiny silhouette against the burning horizon. His small hands rested in his lap, his little legs swinging idly over the tiles. The boy's dark hair caught the last light of the sun, and in his gaze was the stillness of someone far older than his years—as if the whole sunset existed just for him.
Yuyin appeared beside him without a sound, stepping onto the roof as if it were a garden path. She crouched, her shadow falling gently over him, and for a moment simply watched the way his eyes followed the fading light.
Then she smiled.
"My little wanderer," she murmured. "Of all the places to hide… you chose the roof?"
Haotian turned his head, blinking up at her in silent curiosity.
"You know," she continued in a mock-scolding tone, "if you keep climbing up here, I'll have to start calling you the Little Roof Spirit."
She reached out and tapped his nose. "Too mischievous, you."
The boy tilted his head, as if trying to decide whether that was a good thing or not. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and wrapped his tiny arms around her.
Yuyin's smile softened.
She pulled him into her arms, feeling the small warmth of his body settle against her shoulder. His gaze drifted back toward the distant horizon, as though unwilling to let go of the view. Yuyin, sensing this, didn't rush him. She let him watch, standing quietly on the roof with the boy cradled in her arms, the wind carrying the faint scent of the evening blossoms.
It wasn't long before his eyelids grew heavy. His breathing slowed, warm and steady against her collar.
Fast asleep.
Below, the chaos continued unabated. Servants ran from one courtyard to the next, half of them calling his name, the other half reporting "No sign yet!" with growing desperation. A dropped tray of dishes clattered loudly in the distance, followed by an exasperated shout.
Yuyin exhaled through her nose in faint amusement. With the ease of someone born to grace, she stepped lightly toward the roof's edge and leapt down, her movements so smooth that Haotian didn't so much as stir.
Landing in the courtyard, she glanced at the nearest servant—who promptly froze, eyes going wide at the sight of the boy asleep in her arms.
"I'll take him to his chambers to rest," Yuyin said calmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
The search party's collective relief was almost comical—shoulders sagged, audible sighs escaped, and a few clutched at their chests as though their hearts had only just started beating again. They bowed deeply, muttering apologies and promises to be more vigilant.
Yuyin gave a single nod before turning away, carrying Haotian back toward his room with steps so light they seemed to float.
Behind her, the servants dispersed, still whispering among themselves, while somewhere in the kitchen the head cook declared that after a scare like that, everyone was getting double portions at dinner.
The great hall of the Zhenlong ancestral wing was warm with lamplight, the faint scent of sandalwood curling lazily through the air. Four figures sat around a low lacquered table, tea steaming in their cups, the sound of cicadas filtering in from the courtyard.
Yangshen slouched in his seat, one arm hanging off the backrest like a man resigned to fate. Jinhai sat upright and dignified, though his brow was already twitching as if he knew trouble was about to start. Meiyun poured tea with her usual elegance, but her lips carried the ghost of a smirk. And Yuyin—well, she was leaning back just far enough to radiate the smug glow of someone about to deliver tonight's entertainment.
"So," Yuyin began, drawing out the word like a storyteller about to hook an audience, "your beloved great-grandson decided to vanish again today."
Yangshen groaned. "Not again—"
"Oh, yes again," Yuyin said sweetly, ignoring him. "The servants were running around like startled ducks, calling his name as if he'd gone into another realm. One swore he'd seen Haotian's shadow in the courtyard. Another claimed they heard him laugh near the koi pond."
Meiyun sipped her tea, eyes glinting. "And where was he?"
Yuyin let the pause linger, enjoying the way they all leaned in ever so slightly. "Sitting on the highest roof, watching the sunset. Perfectly calm. Legs swinging. Like a little immortal come down to judge us mortals."
Jinhai's brows shot up. "The roof?!"
"Mm-hm." Yuyin smiled. "I joined him, of course. Told him he was too mischievous. He tapped me on the shoulder with that tiny hand of his, then hugged me and kept watching the sky like I was just part of the furniture."
Yangshen's mouth twitched. "…That boy's going to give us all white hair."
"That boy," Yuyin said, leaning in with a pointed look, "is far calmer than all the frantic adults who nearly had a collective heart seizure looking for him. Honestly, the way they panicked… you'd think a demon army had stormed the gates."
Meiyun chuckled behind her teacup. "I can imagine. The poor servants—"
"Poor servants?" Yuyin cut in, eyes narrowing in playful challenge. "No. They're the lucky ones. I'm not even sure they realize the honor of chasing the Young Master across half the estate."
Jinhai sighed, but there was a hint of a smile. "You're spoiling him."
"I'm appreciating him," Yuyin corrected, entirely unbothered. "Besides… aren't we all?"
The table went silent for a heartbeat. Then Meiyun, of all people, shrugged lightly. "Perhaps."
Yangshen shifted uncomfortably. "…I'm not spoiling him."
Three sets of eyes swiveled toward him in perfect unison.
"You," Yuyin said, pointing her teacup at him like an accusation, "gave him a jade pendant last week because he smiled at you."
Yangshen bristled. "It was a polite smile!"
Meiyun tilted her head. "You also carried him around the courtyard for an entire afternoon when he wouldn't let go of your robe."
"That's called being responsible," Yangshen shot back.
Jinhai's lips curved faintly. "And you let him ride on your shoulders the day before that."
"That—" Yangshen paused, realizing the trap, "…was for training balance!"
Yuyin leaned back, victorious. "Spoiled."
The three of them chuckled while Yangshen muttered into his tea like a man who'd just lost an argument he never meant to start.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the faint sound of a child's sleepy breathing could be heard if one listened closely enough—Haotian, safe in his chambers, dreaming without a care.
And though none of them would admit it outright, each ancestor in that room knew Yuyin was right.
They were all spoiling him.
The midday sun spilled in thin bars across the polished floor of Wuhen's private chamber, casting the faint scent of sandalwood and paper ink into the air. The patriarch sat behind his wide desk, a half-finished stack of reports neatly arranged at his right, one hand holding the latest scroll just close enough for the characters to blur slightly from strain.
The room was quiet.
Or so he thought.
Smack… smack… smack…
Wuhen's brow furrowed. He lowered the scroll. His gaze swept the chamber. The space was empty—just the shelves, the side table with the tea set, the pair of lacquered chairs by the wall.
Yet the sound persisted.
Smack… smack… smack…
It was irregular, like a pair of tiny palms slapping the floor in determined rhythm.
"...?" Wuhen leaned back slightly, turning his head toward the left corner—nothing. He glanced toward the door—closed. Finally, curiosity won out and he bent forward, peering beneath the massive desk.
There, in the shadow between the carved legs, was Haotian—panting faintly, palms flattened against the wood, crawling with great purpose toward the far end like a miniature explorer charting new lands. His little brows were furrowed as though the fate of the realm depended on reaching the other side.
Wuhen's lips curved before he could stop himself.
"…What is this child planning now?" he murmured under his breath.
Crouching down beside the desk, he watched silently. Haotian, unaware of his audience, emerged from the far side and beelined toward one of the tall bookshelves. His small hands slapped the polished wood before he began climbing, bare toes finding the carved ridges of the frame.
"Mm… ambitious," Wuhen muttered, tilting his head.
Then—
shffft—thump!
One tiny hand tugged too hard at a spine jutting out from the row. The book slid free with a whisper, Haotian's balance shifted, and gravity claimed him.
Wuhen was already moving.
Strong arms caught the child before he could tumble to the floor. Haotian blinked up at him from the safety of his hold… and grinned, still clutching the book like a victorious prize.
Wuhen sighed. "You're going to drive the servants to madness at this rate."
He reached for the book. Haotian's smile vanished into stubborn defiance, his tiny hands locking tighter around the cover. A brief but spirited struggle followed—Haotian tugging with surprising force for his size, Wuhen tugging back with the patience of a man used to delicate negotiations.
"You want the book?" Wuhen asked finally, eyebrow lifting. "Aren't you a little too young to start reading?"
Haotian's response was to flip it open himself—upside down.
Wuhen exhaled through his nose, suppressing a chuckle. "…I see."
Instead of prying it away, he shifted course. Carrying Haotian back to his desk, he settled into the broad chair and placed the boy on his lap. He gently rotated the book right side up, one large hand holding it open while the other kept the small body steady against him.
"It's the history of Yulong," Wuhen murmured, scanning the first page. "Let's see how much you 'understand.'"
Haotian stared at the text with grave attention, eyes moving as if tracking every character. His little head tilted slightly with each paragraph read aloud, his breathing slowing into a calm, steady rhythm. Wuhen's voice filled the chamber, deep and even, carrying tales of old battles, treaties, and emperors long past.
By the third page, Haotian's head drifted back onto Wuhen's stomach. By the fifth, his eyes had slid shut entirely.
"…Predictable," Wuhen said softly, glancing down at the now-sleeping boy.
With a short sigh, he called out, "Servant."
A quiet shuffle, and a male attendant entered.
Wuhen tilted his chin toward his lap. "Return him to his chambers."
The servant approached, saw the peaceful face nestled against the patriarch, and almost smiled before catching himself. With great care, he lifted Haotian from Wuhen's lap, cradling him as though made of glass.
Wuhen nodded once, already reaching for the next report. "Don't wake him."
The servant bowed and retreated, leaving the patriarch alone with the sound of rustling paper and the faint warmth left behind where the boy had been.
Somewhere down the hall, a certain young escape artist would soon wake up—ready for his next great adventure.
The great hall of the Zhenlong estate was alive with the low murmur of voices, the faint scrape of scrolls being unrolled, and the dignified weight of political gravity. High lacquered beams arched above the long council table, the fragrance of sandalwood incense curling lazily toward the ceiling.
Around the table sat the elders, clan officials, and two visiting envoys from the Western Prefecture—stern-faced men in embroidered crimson robes whose posture alone suggested they did not often find cause for laughter.
At the head of the table, Wuhen was speaking in measured tones. "The allocation of resources to the southern patrols must remain—"
Tap… tap… tap…
The faint sound came from the far end of the hall. At first it was too soft to interrupt, but it was steady—like a tiny drumbeat crawling closer.
No one moved. The envoys listened politely.
Tap… tap… tap…
Wuhen's brow ticked almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicked toward the sound—nothing there. He continued. "—must remain a priority until we have confirmation that—"
Tap… splat…
Something small and round peeked around the base of the carved doorframe. A moment later, it emerged in full view: Haotian.
And not just Haotian.
Haotian decorated.
Thick streaks of black ink crisscrossed his cheeks like a miniature warlord, one line curling dangerously close to his nose. His shirt bore chaotic brushstrokes that might have been dragons… or possibly angry chickens. In his right hand he clutched the guilty instrument itself—a long-handled calligraphy brush that still dripped onto the polished floor.
He crawled forward at a steady pace, utterly unbothered by the fact that twelve pairs of eyes—and two utterly bewildered foreign dignitaries—were watching his every move.
A few elders straightened in their seats. One coughed discreetly into his sleeve. Across the table, Meiyun's lips pressed tightly together, fighting a smile. Yuying tilted her head toward the floor, her shoulders betraying the faintest tremor of laughter.
Haotian reached the nearest chair leg, paused, and gave it a few experimental smacks with the brush, leaving bold streaks of black against the red lacquer. Then, as if this were an entirely natural progression of events, he resumed crawling—directly toward Wuhen.
The patriarch's expression did not shift, though the vein at his temple suggested a very different internal dialogue.
Haotian reached his goal, sat back on his knees, and looked up at Wuhen with wide eyes—one of which now had an accidental ink blot beneath it, making him appear to sport a lopsided beauty mark.
The room was silent.
Then, in a move no one could have predicted, Haotian lifted the brush in offering.
"…For me?" Wuhen asked dryly.
Haotian responded by smearing a single confident stroke across Wuhen's forearm guard.
Several elders choked in unison. One envoy made an alarming noise somewhere between a cough and a snort before disguising it as a polite throat-clear.
Yuying's fan snapped open with a thwick, hiding the grin that had fully escaped her control. "A… most spirited child," she murmured.
Wuhen took the brush, set it carefully on the table, and with no visible irritation, scooped Haotian into his arms. The boy beamed, nestling into the crook of his neck without a care in the world.
"Continue the meeting," Wuhen ordered calmly, rising to his feet.
As he strode out with Haotian in one arm, a trail of small black fingerprints was left behind on his pristine white sleeve. The doors closed behind him, and the hall collectively exhaled.
Only when they were sure the patriarch was gone did the laughter—low, stifled, but inevitable—spread among the elders. The visiting envoys exchanged glances, unsure whether they had just witnessed a minor breach of decorum or a masterclass in family diplomacy.