The lanterns in the council room burned lower than usual, their light pooling in soft gold across the polished table. The day's official matters were long concluded, the visiting envoys escorted to their guest quarters. Only the elders and the four great ancestors remained—Yuying, Jinhai, Meiyun, and Yangshen—joined by Wuhen himself.
A teapot steamed quietly at the table's center, its floral scent drifting through the air. But despite the calm atmosphere, every person here wore the same faint, helpless smile.
Jinhai was the first to break the silence, rubbing his chin. "Well… I've seen many interruptions in my years, but never one quite so… artistic."
Meiyun chuckled into her sleeve. "Artistic? The child's face looked like a battlefield map."
"I'm more concerned about how he got into the meeting at all," Yangshen said dryly, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The guards outside swore they never saw him enter."
"They also swore the kitchen door was locked the day he vanished into the larder," Jinhai countered. "Yet he was found sampling steamed buns while sitting on the counter."
A ripple of laughter moved around the table.
Yuying, leaning lightly on her elbow, fanned herself once before speaking. "Perhaps you're all thinking too literally. He doesn't merely wander—he appears where he wills. No servant can predict it. And now, we've learned he brings gifts to meetings." She allowed herself a sly smile toward Wuhen. "A calligraphy stroke on the patriarch himself, no less."
Even Wuhen's mouth twitched, though he masked it quickly. "The boy has no sense of occasion. The matter is serious. We cannot have him slipping into delicate audiences. Especially if we host foreign dignitaries."
"Serious?" Meiyun tilted her head. "I saw the way those envoys tried to hide their smiles. If anything, it softened their perception of us. A child like him makes a clan seem… human. Warm."
Yangshen grunted. "Warmth is one thing. An unguarded child in the wrong corridor is another." He glanced at Wuhen. "What do we intend? Assign more servants to him?"
"They've already proven they can't keep him in sight," Jinhai said. "By the time they realize he's gone, he's halfway across the estate. His method of disappearing is… beyond comprehension."
There was a short pause. Then, Meiyun spoke again, voice thoughtful. "Perhaps he's simply meant to explore. He may have inherited… that one's curiosity." Her eyes flicked briefly toward Yuying, who knew exactly whose essence she meant without saying the name.
Yuying's gaze softened just slightly. "Or perhaps," she said with a small smile, "he's meant to be a scholar. He's shown interest in books before, and today, a calligraphy brush. Not every child crawls straight for a writing instrument."
"I still say adventurer," Jinhai interjected. "Exploring courtyards, kitchens, rooftops, now council halls… You'll have to tie a bell to him one day."
The table broke into murmurs, tossing suggestions between light humor and genuine strategy—train him in reading early, give him harmless puzzles to keep him occupied, rotate his caretakers to prevent familiarity from breeding opportunity.
Through it all, Wuhen remained silent, his gaze distant.
Finally, he spoke. "For now… we watch. Closely. We do not curb his spirit, but neither do we leave him unwatched. I will not see his curiosity become a risk to him—or to us."
The others nodded in agreement, the meeting naturally winding down into softer talk.
Far across the estate, in his chamber, Haotian lay sound asleep beneath a thin silk blanket. The moonlight spilled gently across his small form.
Ruolan sat beside the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his ink-stained cheek. She had cleaned him earlier, but a faint trace remained near his ear, almost invisible.
She smiled faintly, shaking her head. "Trouble," she whispered affectionately.
Haotian stirred once, a tiny hand curling toward her wrist, but he did not wake. His breathing evened again, steady and warm.
Outside, the chimes swayed in the cool night wind, as if the estate itself exhaled in quiet amusement at the boy's latest adventure.
For three straight days, peace had reigned in the Zhenlong estate.
Haotian's disappearances—once a daily source of panic—had been curbed by a single, ingenious idea: tie a tiny bell around his neck. Wherever he crawled, the faint tink tink tink would announce his location like a herald of mischief.
The servants had grown smug with this new advantage. They could finally keep him in check. No more rooftop rescues, no more surprise appearances in council meetings, no more ink-faced diplomacy.
That morning, he had been placed in the sunlit playroom, a nest of silk cushions and polished wooden toys scattered across the tatami mat. A pair of young attendants sat nearby, smiling as they sipped tea, confident in the reassuring chime of the bell every few seconds.
Then—
Silence.
It was subtle at first, just long enough for one servant to glance up, expecting to see Haotian gnawing on a wooden horse. But the space where he had been was empty.
The second servant froze mid-sip. "…Do you hear—"
"The bell?" the first whispered.
They looked down. On the tatami lay the small silver bell, perfectly intact, as if it had been placed there deliberately.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then both scrambled to their feet, panic setting in.
"Find him!" one hissed. "Before the elders—"
Too late. The sound of hurried sandals echoed down the corridor as word spread like wildfire.
Servants began tearing through hallways, opening storage rooms, peering into every possible—and impossible—corner. A few guards joined in, muttering under their breath about "the cursed vanishing act."
By the time the search reached the inner courtyard, everyone's nerves were fraying.
"Roof?""No, already checked!""Kitchens?""Empty!"
Somewhere in the commotion, Jinhai arrived, hands clasped behind his back, watching the chaos with thinly veiled amusement. "Losing track of him with a bell… impressive."
Yangshen joined moments later, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps the boy untied it himself."
A young servant, red-faced and panting, shook his head. "We… we think someone removed it. It was left right where he was playing."
That made the four ancestors exchange a quick glance—just a flicker, but enough to pass an unspoken thought. This wasn't a simple escape.
"Check the west wing," Yuying ordered, her tone calm but edged with something sharper. "And the garden wall. He favors high places."
Twenty minutes later, a shout went up from the second terrace overlooking the koi pond. Everyone rushed over—only to stop in stunned silence.
Haotian sat there, legs dangling over the stone edge, calmly watching the fish swirl below. No fear, no awareness of the chaos he'd caused. In his lap, a handful of flower petals floated lazily in the pond water he'd scooped up.
Ruolan was the first to reach him, kneeling beside him with a tight-lipped smile. "Haotian…"
He looked up at her with wide eyes, completely innocent, as though wondering what all the fuss was about.
From below, Jinhai muttered, "If I didn't know better, I'd say he wanted to be found like this."
Yangshen grunted. "Or he's testing us."
But in the back of Yuying's mind, a quieter, more unsettling thought took root—No child slips away that cleanly without leaving a trace… unless there's something more to them.
She kept it to herself. For now.
That evening, after Haotian had been tucked away in his chambers—under Ruolan's watchful eye and with two servants stationed just outside—the elders gathered in the private tea room.
The lamps burned low, their amber light casting long shadows across the tatami. The faint hiss of the brazier filled the quiet as the four ancestors, Jinhai, Meiyun, and Yangshen sat in a loose circle.
"This is getting ridiculous," Yangshen began, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The bell failed. The servants are exhausted. We nearly lost him again today."
"He was by the koi pond, Yangshen," Yuyin reminded, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "Hardly 'lost.'"
Yangshen shot her a look, but Yuying's voice was even. "Still… this is not ordinary behavior for a child his age. I suggest… an additional layer of protection."
Jinhai leaned back slightly. "You mean wards."
"On him," Meiyun confirmed, her tone leaving no room for debate. "Not just on the estate. If he insists on wandering, at least we'll know exactly where he is at all times."
Yangshen tapped the table. "A soul-mark locator tethered to a defensive barrier. Harmless to him, but impossible to bypass without an ancestor's key."
Yuying's eyes glinted. "Then it's decided."
The next morning, Haotian woke to find all four ancestors gathered in his room. He blinked sleepily at the sight of them looming over his crib like four solemn mountains.
"This won't hurt," Meiyun said gently, placing a fingertip on his forehead. The faint shimmer of a golden rune spread from her hand, forming a lattice of light that wrapped around his tiny frame. It sank into his skin, vanishing without a trace.
"There," Jinhai said with quiet satisfaction. "Failproof."
Yangshen folded his arms, clearly pleased. "Now, if he so much as crawls into the next room, we'll—"
DING!
All four froze as a small chime rang from the locator crystal in Meiyun's palm. The rune flared—then winked out.
"...What?" Yangshen's voice cracked.
Meiyun stared at the crystal, her expression unreadable. "The tether's gone."
Jinhai frowned. "Gone?"
Before they could answer, the door slid open. One of the servants stumbled in, pale and panting.
"He's… he's gone again."
Yangshen's face twitched. "Where?"
The servant swallowed. "We… found him in the archive library."
The group rushed there, and sure enough—Haotian was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, flipping through a scroll taller than he was, humming to himself.
Yangshen crouched down in front of him, narrowing his eyes. "…How did you get past the wards, little one?"
Haotian blinked up at him, utterly innocent, then stuffed his hand into a pouch of rice crackers he'd somehow acquired.
From behind, Yuyin chuckled softly. "Looks like your 'failproof' needs work, husband."
Yangshen groaned and stood, muttering, "I am not being outwitted by a toddler…"
The others exchanged glances, but none said aloud what they were all thinking—This isn't just cleverness. Something else is at work here.
The following evening, the four ancestors gathered once more in the tea room—except this time, there was an undeniable gleam in their eyes. What had started as concern was now… something closer to obsession.
"Normal methods won't do," Jinhai declared, unrolling a parchment covered in detailed diagrams of barriers, seals, and containment arrays. "If this child is truly slipping past us with skill alone, we need to escalate."
Yangshen leaned forward, pointing to one of the sketches. "Layered spatial locking. Inner ring, outer ring, and a directional phase anchor."
Meiyun added, "Plus a distraction charm. Give him toys that must be interacted with before he even thinks of leaving the room."
Yuyin smirked from behind her teacup. "And when he ignores the toys, bypasses the phase anchor, and slips through both rings like water through a sieve?"
Yangshen grunted. "Then we move to Plan B."
Test One — The Triple Seal Barrier
The next morning, Haotian awoke inside a shimmering dome of golden light, runes circling lazily like fish in a pond. Outside the barrier, Yangshen and Meiyun stood with arms crossed, clearly proud of their handiwork.
Haotian stared at the barrier for exactly three seconds. Then, without hesitation, he toddled over to his toy drum, beat it twice (BOOM-BOOM), and—somehow—stepped directly through the barrier as if it were mist.
Yangshen's jaw tightened. "He didn't even touch the runes."
Test Two — The Illusion Maze
Jinhai set up an entire illusionary garden around Haotian's play mat, filled with winding paths, false exits, and harmless spirit creatures meant to gently corral him.
Haotian blinked once at a passing illusionary butterfly, reached out to grab it—then walked straight through the hedge wall like it wasn't even there.
"He ignored the intended path entirely," Jinhai muttered, bewildered. "That wasn't even a flaw in the illusion. He just… decided it didn't exist."
Test Three — The Floating Platform
Meiyun arranged for Haotian's play area to be placed on a hovering jade platform in the center of a training hall, suspended by layers of wind and levitation magic. The only way down was to be carried.
They turned away for half a breath, and when they looked back, Haotian was calmly sitting on the floor at their feet, chewing on a rice cracker.
"…No one saw him descend?" Meiyun asked flatly.
"No," Yangshen said slowly. "No one saw anything."
Test Four — The Spirit Beast Babysitter
In a last-ditch effort, they placed a gentle, watchful spirit fox—normally tasked with guarding the inner archives—right beside Haotian. The fox was known for its unblinking vigilance and near-omniscient perception.
An hour later, the fox was found curled up and asleep, Haotian nowhere in sight.
They found him in the kitchen, happily stirring a pot of soup with the head chef.
Yuyin pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh. "You're all making this far too complicated. He doesn't break your barriers. He simply ignores them."
Yangshen stared at the boy, a faint chill creeping up his spine. The others could feel it too—that faint, impossible undercurrent of something else lingering just beyond what they could explain.
They didn't say the name aloud, but each thought the same thing.
Alter.
It happened during what was supposed to be their "final test."
Haotian was in the courtyard, seated on a soft mat surrounded by a half-dozen harmless enchanted toys—runes etched in the flagstones, spatial anchors woven into the air. It was the most secure setup yet.
Yangshen, Jinhai, Meiyun, and Yuyin watched from the veranda, sipping tea like a panel of overly smug examiners.
"This time," Yangshen murmured, "let's see him slip past this."
Haotian didn't seem interested in escaping. For the first five minutes, he tapped his toy drum, rolled a jade ball, and pulled at the tassels of a stuffed qilin.
Then a butterfly—a real one, not part of the enchantment—fluttered past.
In a blink, Haotian was on his feet. The elders leaned forward.
He stepped toward the low garden wall… then vanished.
Jinhai's eyes darted upward just in time to see him—tiny form perched precariously on a high branch of an old pine tree, one small hand reaching for the butterfly as the branch bent dangerously under his weight.
The world seemed to slow.
One crack of wood away from a fall, and yet—Haotian didn't slip. He simply shifted his weight in the exact way needed for the branch to sway back without breaking, then hopped down onto the wall like it was nothing. The butterfly fluttered away, but he only laughed softly to himself and toddled toward the veranda.
The elders froze. That movement—that instinct—wasn't something a child his age could have possibly understood. It was the kind of perfect, thoughtless balance Alter had displayed countless times in his prime.
No one said it aloud, but their amused smiles had thinned into quiet thought.
That night, the four ancestors met in the tea room.
"This… can't go on," Meiyun said finally. "We can't keep losing sight of him, and we certainly can't risk another close call."
"So we assign someone to him," Yuyin suggested. "Not a guard. A… companion. Someone he'll want to stay near."
Yangshen sighed. "Like a glorified playmate."
"Exactly," Yuyin said sweetly.
The next day, they introduced Lianhua—a bright-eyed, warm-voiced young servant from a branch family. She was barely six, with her hair tied in a neat bun and a smile that could coax stubborn children into obedience.
From the first moment, Haotian's disappearances stopped being random. He still vanished… but only to find her.
They played in the gardens, read picture books in the library, and even sat through basic writing lessons with an old scholar, Haotian frowning in concentration as Lianhua guided his tiny hand over the brush.
And perhaps most importantly—he started sleeping better.
One morning, Ruolan awoke to find Haotian missing from his crib. Panic sent the servants searching—until they found him curled up on a futon in Lianhua's small room, sleeping peacefully with his head resting on her arm.
When she stirred awake, she only smiled faintly and whispered, "He must have come here in the night. Didn't even wake me."
From that day forward, Lianhua wasn't just his assigned caretaker. She became his constant—his anchor in the estate's daily rhythm.
The ancestors said little about it, but they watched quietly. Perhaps, in some small way, the boy had chosen his protector.
Two years slipped by in the quiet, measured rhythm of the estate.
Haotian was no longer the crawling, babbling mischief-maker who sent servants into blind panic. Now, he walked with steady, confident steps—small but purposeful—and spoke with a clarity that surprised anyone hearing him for the first time.
His mornings began with Lianhua at his side, the two of them crossing the courtyard toward the study halls. She carried a small stack of scrolls; he carried a single ink brush like it was a prized treasure.
By the standards of his age, Haotian's grasp of writing and reading was unnerving. He could recite entire verses from the Yulong classics, copy characters without guidance, and even identify certain calligraphic styles.
Lianhua often teased, "You'll be reading faster than me before your next birthday."
He would tilt his head in mock seriousness. "Faster than everyone."
But despite this calm and disciplined side, there was one habit that had quietly returned.
The disappearances.
They no longer sent the estate into chaos—because Lianhua always knew exactly where to find him.
If he slipped away during class, she would smile faintly, excuse herself, and follow the familiar trail.
More often than not, she'd find him running circles in the courtyard, his steps oddly balanced for his age, or perched halfway up a tree like a patient little bird.
Once, she found him sitting high on a thick branch, back against the trunk, legs dangling as he watched the clouds drift.
She stood at the base of the tree, hands on her hips. "Again?"
Haotian glanced down, grinned, and pointed toward the horizon. "The wind feels different up here."
With the ease of long practice, Lianhua climbed up after him, settling beside him as if they'd been doing this for years—which, in truth, they had.
Neither spoke much after that. She let him sit in his quiet world for a while, watching the leaves sway and the distant rooftops glint in the afternoon light.
Eventually, when the shadows grew longer, she stood. "Come on, scholar. Back to class before the old master decides to hunt you down."
He groaned but took her hand.
It was clear to everyone in the estate now: Haotian's wild streak hadn't vanished… it had simply become selective. And Lianhua was the only one who could call him down from wherever his restless feet carried him.