By his third year, Haotian's days had taken on a rhythm the entire estate could feel.The chaos of his early years—the endless escapes, the rooftop sunsets, the ink-faced intrusions—had slowed. Under Lianhua's constant presence and gentle guidance, he had learned to stay within sight, to sit longer in lessons, to finish a scroll before chasing after a passing bird.
It was enough for the ancestors and Wuhen to agree on the next step.
If the boy's mind was sharp, his body must be shaped to match.
So, on the first day of the second moon, Haotian was led out to the estate's west courtyard—the private martial grounds usually reserved for Wuhen's personal training. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of pine resin and wet stone from the night's drizzle. Sunlight spilled through the slats of the high wall, striping the polished tiles in pale gold.
Wuhen stood in the center, hands clasped behind his back, watching as Lianhua guided Haotian toward him. The boy's small feet padded softly over the stone, his expression curious but unafraid.
"From today onward," Wuhen said evenly, "you will begin your foundation."
Haotian tilted his head. "Foundation for what?"
"Strength. Balance. Endurance," Wuhen replied, stepping forward and crouching to meet his gaze. "Without these, your mind's skill will be wasted when your body fails you."
Haotian's lips pursed in thought before he nodded. "Alright."
The first exercises were simple—stances, stretches, short sprints across the courtyard. Wuhen demonstrated each one with slow precision, and Haotian followed, his small limbs wobbling at first but settling with each attempt. His stance was too narrow, his arms sometimes crooked, but his focus never wavered.
Lianhua sat at the edge of the courtyard, watching him with quiet pride as he struggled through a series of push-ups, brow furrowed in determination.
By midday, his hair was damp, cheeks flushed, and his tunic clung to his back. But when Wuhen called for a break, Haotian didn't flop onto the tiles like a tired child—he stood straight, chest rising and falling, eyes bright.
The ancestors, watching unseen from the pavilion above, exchanged knowing glances. Discipline was setting in. The boy's wild energy was beginning to take shape.
That night, as Haotian fell asleep with sore arms and legs, the faintest ripple of Alter's essence pulsed beneath the surface—silent, steady, like a heartbeat waiting for the right moment to quicken.
Weeks passed, and the west courtyard saw Haotian's small frame more often than the birds nesting in its tiled eaves.His movements grew steadier, his stance firmer. Where once his feet tangled during short sprints, they now landed with an even, rhythmic patter. His push-ups, once a series of clumsy collapses, now flowed into proper form.
But it was during one late afternoon session that something caught Wuhen's eye.
They were practicing balance drills—walking the length of a narrow wooden beam, no wider than two fingers, without looking down. Most adults took weeks to master it. Haotian, on his fourth attempt, had yet to fall. His steps were deliberate, light, and his eyes were fixed forward in a calm way that didn't match a child's usual wavering focus.
When a sudden gust swept through the courtyard, rattling leaves from the pine trees, Haotian swayed—yet instead of stumbling, he shifted his weight like water flowing around a stone and kept walking.
Wuhen's gaze sharpened.That wasn't just practice. That was instinct.
He said nothing, only noting it silently. The boy had always been unusual, but this… this was different.
That evening, the family gathered in the main hall for dinner. The long lacquered table gleamed under the lantern light, bowls of steaming rice and fragrant dishes spread between them.
At the head sat Wuhen, flanked by his first wife, Lady Qiruo, graceful in pale blue silk, and his second wife, Ruolan, whose eyes lingered often on the empty seat beside her.
Haotian's older siblings—Jiuhan and the others—were already eating when Qiruo lifted her teacup. "He's late again," she murmured, her tone somewhere between amused and resigned.
Ruolan sighed. "He's not late—he's missing. Again."
Jiuhan set down his chopsticks with a faint smile. "At least this time he didn't climb the roof."
Wuhen's expression didn't change, but his voice carried a subtle weight. "He's progressing. His form holds longer, his stamina improves daily. But there are… small things. Subtle. His sense of balance, his reaction to changes in his surroundings. He's… different."
Qiruo arched a brow. "Different how?"
"Too soon to name it," Wuhen said simply. "But not the kind of difference you train into a child this young."
Ruolan glanced toward the doorway as if expecting him to appear. "Whatever it is, I only hope it doesn't draw the wrong kind of attention."
Just then, the shoji slid open. Lianhua entered—alone."Haotian is not in his chambers," she said, a hint of worry in her voice.
The room went still.
"Where is he?" Wuhen asked.
Lianhua hesitated, then smiled faintly. "I'll find him." She bowed and slipped out before anyone could press further.
In the silence that followed, Qiruo sighed into her tea. "Perhaps we should tie that bell on him again."
Wuhen didn't respond. His mind was already replaying that moment in the courtyard, watching Haotian's weight shift like flowing water.
Some things could not be explained by talent alone.
Lantern light flickered across the estate's corridors as Lianhua padded swiftly through the west wing, the faint echo of her steps lost under the hum of night insects. She had checked his chambers, the study, the courtyard trees—empty. Haotian was gone again.
But unlike the panic of the servants, Lianhua moved with quiet confidence. Over two years of chasing this boy had taught her to follow not the obvious trails, but the little silences—the places where sound should be, but wasn't.
She passed the small archway leading toward the moon-viewing pavilion and stopped. There, beneath the stone lanterns, a shadow moved—not hurriedly, not clumsily, but in a rhythm far too deliberate for a toddler.
Haotian stood barefoot on the wooden deck, one foot forward, one hand raised. He shifted weight onto his back leg, then slid forward in a smooth step… the kind of controlled glide a seasoned martial artist might use to close distance without sound. His eyes were half-lidded, focused on something only he could see.
The movement was slow, but exact. Not a child's playful mimicry. Every shift of his stance had balance, intent, and precision.
Lianhua's brows knitted. She had watched him tumble through basic drills in the courtyard for weeks—yet here, in the quiet night, his footing was flawless.
She took a step forward. "Haotian…"
His head turned toward her, the moonlight catching his face. For an instant, she swore his eyes flashed gold—soft, faint, gone before she could be certain. He blinked, then grinned in that boyish way that made him look every bit his age.
"Lianhua," he said simply, padding toward her.
When she knelt to meet him, she noticed something else—the boards beneath his feet made no sound at all when he moved, not even the faint creak they gave under her own weight.
She took his hand. "You shouldn't be out here this late."
He tilted his head, as if the thought didn't occur to him, then leaned against her side. "I was… walking."
Her lips curved faintly. "I could see that."
They turned back toward the inner halls. Behind them, the moonlight pooled across the deck where he had stood, the stillness almost echoing.
Lianhua didn't speak of what she saw. But as they passed into the warm lamplight of the corridor, a thought settled quietly in her mind:
Those were not the steps of a child learning to walk.
The estate slept under the deep hush of midnight, its gardens washed in silver light. Bamboo leaves whispered in the wind, koi rippled the stillness of the pond, and somewhere distant, the faint echo of a night bell rolled over the hills.
From the shadow of a curved bridge, Zhenlong Yuying stood watching. She had been walking the grounds for her own quiet meditation, her silk sleeves brushing against the carved railing, when she noticed a flicker of movement by the moon-viewing pavilion.
Haotian.
The boy stood alone again, just as Lianhua had seen him days before—barefoot, head slightly lowered, body moving in deliberate, fluid patterns. Yuying froze, her breath caught between curiosity and something sharper.
He wasn't playing.
Every motion bore a calm efficiency—each footfall placed with weight distribution that reminded her not of a child, but of a veteran warrior's training. His knees bent in perfect proportion to his step length, his center of gravity unwavering even when he turned.
And then, in the midst of a sidestep, his eyes lifted toward the moon. The gold flicker—impossible, faint, and yet there—lit them for the briefest instant before vanishing.
Yuying's heart gave a quiet, startled thud. That light… she had seen it before, long ago, in battlefields where Alter stood among dragons and gods alike.
The boy stilled, his breathing unbroken, as though the entire exercise had been nothing more than a passing thought. Slowly, he walked toward the garden's edge—soundless, unnaturally so.
Yuying let him vanish into the inner halls without calling out. Only when the soft scrape of a sliding door echoed in the distance did she release the breath she'd been holding.
Her gaze lingered on the deck where he had stood.
"Not yet," she thought, her fingers tightening slightly around her sleeve. "He doesn't know what he is doing… but those are not the movements of a mortal child."
In the quiet, her mind returned to the long years past, the warfront skies lit with Alter's golden strikes. The resemblance was no longer something she could laugh off.
She turned from the bridge, her steps carrying her toward the ancestral wing. The other elders would have to hear of this—not to act, not yet, but to watch more closely.
For if Alter's shadow truly lived within Haotian, then the day would come when no roof, wall, or seal could contain him.
The morning sunlight spilled through drifting petals, painting the estate courtyard in soft gold. Servants moved quietly about their duties, the air filled with the faint aroma of steamed buns and tea from the kitchens.
By the koi pond, Haotian sat on the stone ledge with his legs dangling, tossing crumbs into the water while Lianhua knelt beside him, patiently pointing out the larger fish.
From the walkway above, Zhenlong Yuying descended, her presence calm but eyes sharp with quiet intent.
"Lianhua," she called, her tone smooth as still water, "would you leave Haotian with me for a moment? I wish to show him something."
Lianhua bowed and stepped back, casting a glance at Haotian. "Be good," she said with a small smile before retreating toward the kitchen.
Yuying approached, her steps deliberate, and crouched to meet Haotian's gaze. "Shall we play a little game?" she asked, her lips curving in an almost grandmotherly smile. "You try to touch my sleeve before I can move it away. Just a little fun between us."
Haotian tilted his head, blinking. Then, without a word, he nodded.
Yuying extended one arm slightly toward him, sleeve draping down. The moment his small hand twitched, she shifted it aside—testing for reaction speed.
What she got was not speed. It was precision.
Haotian didn't lunge. He simply adjusted, almost instinctively, cutting off her retreat angle. His fingers brushed the fabric on the second attempt—not through raw agility, but through subtle positioning.
Yuying's eyes narrowed a fraction. He's predicting…
She laughed lightly, as though amused by a child's persistence. "Oh, you are quick."
They played again. And again. Each time, Haotian's movements seemed unconsciously correct—balancing his weight, adjusting the angle of his approach, and compensating for her changes in stance.
Finally, Yuying shifted into something she knew only Alter ever used—a small step pivot combined with a lateral slip. It was meant to break direct pursuit entirely.
Haotian followed. Not perfectly, not deliberately, but enough to brush her sleeve again before giggling softly, as if pleased with himself.
She withdrew her hand and ruffled his hair, masking her thoughts behind a serene expression. "Very good, little one. You may go back to your fish now."
As he returned to the pond and crouched beside it once more, Yuying stood, her gaze lingering on him.
That was no child's reflex. That was instinct—deep, ingrained… and not his own.
Without a word, she turned and walked away, her mind already turning over how to inform the other elders without drawing too much attention.
The game was over for the morning, but in Yuying's eyes, the real testing had only just begun.
That night, the estate was still, the courtyards lit only by the soft glow of paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The koi pond from earlier was a silent mirror now, and the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine hung in the air.
Zhenlong Yuying walked with measured steps toward the west pavilion, where only one other elder had been summoned—Zhenlong Jinhai, the man she trusted most to keep a secret until the right moment.
He was already there, seated at a low table with a single pot of tea. The steam curled upward, carrying the faint fragrance of roasted leaves.
"You've been quiet since supper," Jinhai said without looking up, pouring her a cup as she joined him. "What's caught your mind?"
Yuying set herself down across from him, her posture straight, her tone low enough that even the cicadas couldn't overhear. "Haotian."
Jinhai's hand paused midway to his cup. "Go on."
"This morning, I tested him—under the guise of play. I wanted to see if the movements we've heard about from the servants were conscious mischief… or something else." She sipped her tea, letting the pause draw him in. "It was not conscious. And yet, they were precise."
Jinhai finally looked at her, eyes narrowing. "Precise?"
"Not fast. Not strong. Precise," Yuying said, setting down her cup. "When I moved, he didn't chase my hand blindly. He cut off my angles. Adjusted his stance without thinking. Even copied a movement I've only seen from one other person."
Jinhai's voice dropped, the weight of his suspicion pressing into the air. "…Alter."
The name wasn't spoken loudly, but even at a whisper, it carried gravity.
Yuying's gaze didn't waver. "I cannot say for certain. But if it is his essence guiding Haotian, then these 'slips' are no longer just a matter of child's play."
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the soft pop of the lantern's candlewick the only sound.
Finally, Jinhai spoke. "We won't tell the others yet. No reason to stir the waters when the ripples are still small. But we'll watch. Closely. And when—if—his instincts become undeniably Alter's…" He let the sentence trail off, the unspoken implications settling between them.
Yuying gave a slow nod. "Then we'll decide our next move."
The two elders sat for a while longer, sipping tea in the quiet. Outside, a small shadow flitted across the courtyard—Haotian, slipping back into his chambers after what was likely another small adventure. Neither elder moved to stop him.
For now, the game was one of patience.
It was an ordinary late autumn afternoon, the kind where the air in the Zhenlong estate carried the faint crispness of cooling leaves and the sound of distant servants calling out errands. Jinhai had been crossing the outer training courtyard, headed toward the southern archives, when he caught sight of Haotian sitting on the stone steps of the pavilion.
The boy's little legs swung idly, his attention fixed on a pair of young sparring disciples practicing in the center of the courtyard. A bamboo practice spear clattered to the ground after a mistimed block, and the nearest disciple lunged forward to snatch it back up.
Only—before the spear could even scrape the flagstones—Haotian moved.
It wasn't the clumsy scramble of a child chasing after something shiny. His body shifted with sudden, startling precision—weight on the balls of his feet, pivot angled perfectly to intercept. In two steps, he was in front of the falling spear, hand closing around the shaft in midair without looking at it. His eyes, instead, were locked on the older disciple's stance… as if judging whether that lunge would have left the boy open to a counterstrike.
The whole thing took less than a second.
Jinhai's breath caught—not because of the speed, but because the posture, the economy of motion, the way Haotian's gaze tracked the opponent rather than the weapon… was Alter.
Exactly Alter.
But before he could process it further, Haotian's face lit up with a child's grin. He held the spear up for the older disciple like a trophy, laughing when the boy patted his head in thanks. To anyone else watching, it was nothing more than a precocious two-year-old being helpful.
Jinhai's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He glanced around—the other disciples were already back to their drills, the servants nearby hadn't even registered the slip.
By the time he crossed the courtyard, Haotian had set the spear down and was chasing a drifting leaf, his steps uneven and childlike again. The precision was gone, replaced by the stumbling gait of his age.
Jinhai didn't call attention to it.
But as he left the courtyard, he pressed his hands behind his back and let his thoughts coil tight.It wasn't chance. And it wasn't mimicry.
He had just seen Alter's reflexes living inside the boy.