The moon hung low over the Zhenlong estate, pale silver spilling across the curved rooftops and still gardens. The household had long since fallen silent, save for the occasional patrol of distant guards.
In the western wing, behind the sliding doors of a lantern-lit study, Yuying sat alone with a steaming cup of tea, her expression unreadable. The faint rustle of robes announced Jinhai's arrival before the door slid shut behind him.
"You're late," she said softly, setting the cup down without looking at him.
"I wanted to be certain before speaking," Jinhai replied, crossing the room until the two stood within arm's reach. His voice was low, every syllable measured. "Today… I saw it for myself."
Yuying's eyes lifted, sharp and steady. "Describe it."
He told her. Every step, every shift, every breath of that moment in the courtyard—the way Haotian's body moved with deliberate control, the way his gaze had locked onto the opponent rather than the weapon, the effortless interception mid-motion.
When he finished, Yuying leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. For several breaths, she said nothing. Then—
"That is no child's instinct," she murmured. "That is Alter's spine and Alter's eyes, hidden in a boy's frame."
Jinhai's jaw tightened. "It lasted only a moment. Then he went back to moving as if he'd never taken a proper step in his life. No one else noticed."
"That's how it will be," Yuying said. "Until… it won't."
They shared a glance heavy with unspoken agreement. The implications were vast—political, spiritual, and deeply personal—but neither of them reached for the threads just yet.
"You're certain we shouldn't tell the others?" Jinhai asked.
"Not yet," she replied without hesitation. "The more people who watch for it, the greater the chance someone outside the family will hear. And if that happens before we understand why… we lose control of the truth."
Jinhai exhaled slowly. "Then we wait. We watch. And when the moment comes that cannot be dismissed…"
"…We will decide whether to guard him or to prepare him," Yuying finished, her gaze drifting toward the moonlit garden beyond the open screen.
For a while, they stood in silence, the weight of their shared certainty resting between them like an unspoken vow. Somewhere in the east wing, a faint sound of childish laughter echoed in the night—light, harmless, and nothing at all like the man they both remembered.
And yet, both knew…
Alter was still here.
The night's conversation between Yuying and Jinhai ended without fanfare. No formal summons was made, no grand announcement to the household. But before the next sun had risen fully over the eastern eaves, word had quietly passed through the ancestral lines.
By midmorning, Wuhen was summoned to the inner hall—a place where even he entered with measured steps. Four of the Zhenlong ancestors were present, seated in their respective places beneath the wall scrolls of past patriarchs. The incense was still burning when Yuying's voice cut through the stillness.
"Your son shows… promise," she began evenly, her eyes neither warm nor cold. "But promise can burn too hot if stoked without care."
Wuhen inclined his head slightly, not pressing for more. "Your meaning?"
Jinhai spoke next, tone deliberately neutral. "Continue his training. But keep it only to physical conditioning and the foundations of form. No advanced maneuvers, no weapon work, and certainly no cultivation methods."
Wuhen's brows twitched faintly. "Even basic stance work can lead to—"
"That is acceptable," Yuying interrupted. "Anything beyond that is not. Not until he reaches the proper age for testing his potential. We will decide the course then."
The words left little room for debate, but Wuhen's gaze lingered on each of them before he finally inclined his head in acknowledgment. "As you wish."
When he left the hall, the incense still curling in the air behind him, Wuhen understood this was not merely about pacing Haotian's growth. This was about control.
And though no one spoke it aloud, they all knew—these restrictions were not for Haotian's safety alone.
The days that followed brought no protest from Haotian.
When Wuhen adjusted the morning regimen—removing anything resembling complex drills—there was no visible flicker of frustration in the boy's eyes. Instead, Haotian simply took the change as fact, repeating each basic stance and movement with the same unhurried focus he had shown before.
In the training courtyard, he moved between low horse stance, slow stepping forms, and careful balance drills on narrow wooden beams. The servants and guards who passed by often found themselves surprised at his patience. For a child just past two years old, he seemed content to practice the same thing over and over, as though each repetition revealed something new only to him.
Lianhua, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the practice ground, quietly read aloud from a thin book while keeping him in sight. Every so often, Haotian would glance her way—not to ask for help, but as if to check her presence—before returning to the form.
The ancestors observed from the shade of the veranda. Jinhai leaned his chin against his hand, murmuring just loud enough for Yuying to hear. "He doesn't fight the pace."
"Mm," she replied, watching closely. "And that tells us more than any outburst could. He adapts without complaint. He absorbs the change like water finding its level."
Wuhen, standing near the practice rack, gave a short nod as Haotian completed a stance sequence with near-perfect weight distribution for his age. He offered no praise, but the faint softening of his expression did not escape the elders' notice.
When training ended, Haotian didn't ask for more. He simply trotted to Lianhua's side, took her hand, and walked off toward the inner halls as if the day's work had been nothing more than another step along a much longer road.
The ancestors exchanged brief glances. Satisfied for now, they allowed the pace to remain.
The seasons had worn the edges off Haotian's once-boundless mischief, leaving a boy with a rhythm to his days.
In the mornings, he sat at his low desk beside Lianhua, brush in hand, practicing calligraphy with a steady, almost unnatural discipline for his age. His characters, while still carrying the softness of a child's hand, were clean and deliberate, each stroke landing where it belonged.
Afternoons belonged to the courtyard—light drills, basic stances, and stretching under Wuhen's guidance. The movements were never advanced, but the boy's breathing matched his steps with uncanny ease, and his balance remained unshaken even when distracted. His small frame had begun to take on the lean lines of early strength, shoulders and legs firming with every passing month.
Evenings were quiet: dinner with family, an early retreat to his chambers, no more frantic searches through the estate halls. To most eyes, he was simply a well-raised child in the care of a disciplined household.
But to the ancestors, he was something else entirely.
From shaded verandas and high rooflines, Yuying, Jinhai, and Meiyun studied every detail—how his brush never trembled, how his footing never slipped, how his mind absorbed instruction like a parched field drinking the rain.
Finally, one late evening as candles burned low, Meiyun broke the silence. "It's time. We've kept him on the basics long enough. We should know what's truly there."
"A test," Jinhai agreed, his tone low.
Wuhen was summoned to the inner chamber. The discussion was brief, every voice steady but certain—they would design a trial that pressed Haotian's body and focus without revealing the full intent. No dangerous duels, no risky techniques… but an obstacle course that would quietly stretch the limits of what a child his age should be able to do.
The following morning, Haotian stepped into the courtyard expecting his usual drills. Instead, the grounds had been transformed.
Before him stood a low training platform, flanked by a row of weighted sandbags sized for small hands. Rope ladders dangled from crossbeams. Short climbing walls rose at the far end, with narrow balance beams connecting them. Suspended wooden hoops waited midway through the course, and a series of staggered platforms forced the runner to leap from one to another without touching the ground.
Wuhen stood beside the course, arms folded, expression calm. "Today's lesson is different," he said. "You'll begin here—" he tapped the starting platform "—and end there." His hand pointed to the far corner, where a wooden pole bearing a small red banner marked the finish.
Haotian's eyes wandered the length of the course, lingering on the beams, the hoops, the weights. His lips pressed together in concentration, but no hesitation flickered across his face.
From the veranda above, the ancestors leaned forward. This was the moment.
Wuhen placed a sandbag into Haotian's hands. "First, carry this."
The boy adjusted his grip, the extra weight causing his small frame to sink slightly. Then—at the soft signal—he moved.
At first, it was exactly as they expected: small, quick steps, careful footing. But as the course unfolded, subtler signs began to surface. His body shifted naturally to absorb the weight without breaking stride. His jumps from one platform to the next landed with a precision that made even the rope sway less than expected. When the hoops came, he ducked and twisted in ways far too fluid for someone still learning the fundamentals.
And though his breath quickened, it never faltered.
By the time he reached the final pole, the ancestors exchanged glances. No one said it aloud, but every one of them felt it—the faint echo of someone else's instincts moving through the boy's body.
Haotian, unaware of their eyes, simply stood with his small hand on the red banner, looking up at Wuhen as if to ask, "What's next?"
That night, the great hall of the inner wing was quiet save for the slow crackle of the brazier fire. The low table between them was scattered with untouched tea cups.
Jinhai was the first to break the silence. "You all saw it."
Yuying's lips curved faintly. "Saw it? I felt it. He moves like someone who's already walked those steps before… and not just once."
Meiyun set down her cup with a soft clack. "Which is why we must be careful. Let him advance too quickly, and we risk awakening something neither he nor the rest of the household is ready for."
Jinhai's gaze narrowed slightly. "You're suggesting we keep him tethered?"
"I'm suggesting," Meiyun replied, her voice like still water, "that we avoid pulling at the thread before we know what's on the other end."
Yuying leaned back, fingers drumming once against the armrest. "If we bind him too tightly, the thread will snap. Better to let it unspool naturally, so we can see the weave."
The discussion circled like smoke—caution against curiosity, restraint against readiness. In the end, they reached a fragile consensus: Haotian's training would remain steady, not rushed, but the eyes upon him would double. Not just to watch for skill… but to watch for signs.
Above them, the shadows swayed gently against the painted ceiling. And somewhere beyond the hall's paper doors, the boy in question slept without a care in the world.
Four Years Later
The testing hall was silent, save for the faint hiss of incense curling toward the vaulted ceiling. At the center of the chamber stood seven crystalline pillars, each carved from a single flawless prism stone. Sunlight from the open skylight above refracted through them, sending muted rainbows across the polished floor.
These were the Pillars of Light—the Zhenlong clan's ancient instrument for measuring a child's talent and potential. When touched, a pillar would flare in a color of the rainbow, from pale red at the lowest end to deep violet at the highest. The darker and richer the hue, the greater the promise of the one being tested.
Haotian stood small before them, his white training tunic freshly pressed, hair neatly tied back. His eyes flicked up once to where the ancestors sat on the high dais—Yuying in calm authority, Jinhai watching with a steady gaze, Meiyun's expression unreadable. Beside them, Wuhen's presence was solid and silent, while Ruolan's hands were clasped tightly in her lap.
The lead examiner stepped forward, his voice echoing in the still chamber."Zhenlong Haotian, step forward. Place your hand upon the pillar. Let the light measure what dwells within."
Haotian approached the first pillar, the tallest at the center. The crystalline surface was cool under his small palm. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing slowly, as he had been taught. The gathered family and elders leaned forward.
Nothing happened.
The pillar remained clear. Not even the faintest shimmer.
A murmur rippled through the audience. The examiner cleared his throat and gestured to the second pillar. Haotian moved to it, pressed his hand again. No light.
One by one, he touched each pillar—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Not a single one stirred.
By the time he stepped back, the hall was steeped in puzzled silence.
Even the ancestors exchanged looks. Yuying's brows drew together, Jinhai's fingers tapped once against the armrest, and Meiyun's eyes narrowed slightly. It made no sense—this was the same child who showed unusual promise with reading, writing, and even basic physical training. To have the Pillars of Light show nothing… was unprecedented.
The examiner finally bowed, uncertain. "The test… is complete."
Whispers filled the hall as Haotian was led out.
That evening, Haotian sat quietly on the veranda outside his chambers, legs tucked up, chin resting on his knees. The sunset painted the courtyard in gold and rose, but he didn't look up.
Lianhua knelt beside him, a warm shawl draped over her arm. She set it gently across his shoulders. "You did nothing wrong," she said softly.
"I didn't light anything," he murmured, voice small. "Not even a little."
Her smile was faint but steady. "Pillars aren't the whole world. Some things can't be measured by light or color." She tilted her head toward him. "Besides… you're Haotian. That's already something special."
He looked at her, uncertainty still clouding his expression. But when she reached over to ruffle his hair, the corner of his mouth twitched upward just slightly.
"Come on," she said. "I'll read you the rest of that story you like."
As the two slipped back into his chamber, the last light of the day faded from the courtyard—unseen by most, a faint shimmer of gold glinted in his eyes for a heartbeat before vanishing.
That night, the great meeting chamber of the Zhenlong estate glowed faintly under the warm light of oil lamps. The carved dragon pillars loomed in the shadows, their stone eyes glinting faint gold.
The four ancestors sat around the low table. Tea steamed quietly in untouched cups. No one drank.
Yuying set her cup down, her tone even but tinged with disbelief. "You all saw it. Not a single pillar stirred. Not even the faintest shimmer."
Meiyun's hands rested in her lap. "And yet, this is the same child who read before he could walk, whose calligraphy is already more precise than some scholars. The result makes no sense."
Jinhai leaned forward, voice edged with frustration. "The pillars have never failed to react. Even the most untalented child sparks red. But with Haotian—nothing. That is not normal."
Across from them, Yangshen had remained silent. His gaze was lowered, fixed not on the others, but on the floor before him. His fingers drummed lightly against the table's edge, his expression far away.
"Perhaps the pillars malfunctioned," Yuying offered, though the words lacked conviction.
"No," Jinhai said flatly. "This is something else. Sealed talent, perhaps. But by what?"
Yangshen finally lifted his head. His voice was low, deliberate. "Not by what… by whom."
The others turned toward him.
He reached into his sleeve, withdrawing a long, lacquered scroll case—deep red with golden dragon inlays. The faint, almost imperceptible aura of old power clung to it. He set it on the table with care.
"This," Yangshen said quietly, "was given to me by Alter, in his final moments here. He told me to pass it to Haotian when the time was right. Until tonight, I had not opened it."
The other ancestors exchanged glances, leaning in as Yangshen slid the scroll free. The parchment was aged, but pristine, ink lines sharp and deliberate—every stroke carrying the weight of intent. The characters at the top read:
『Heaven-Sundered Trinity Scripture』
Meiyun's eyes narrowed. "A cultivation method?"
Yangshen nodded. "Designed specifically for Haotian. Alter spoke of three cores—his dantian, his heart, and a third sealed beyond even our sensing. This scripture harmonizes them, but only when he has grown naturally to a certain stage. If pushed too soon, the balance will collapse."
Yuying's gaze lingered on the text. "So the pillars could not measure him… because this path lies outside their reach."
"Exactly," Yangshen replied. "This method refines and stores strength invisibly. Nothing will show—no colors, no light—until the day all three cores awaken together. When that happens…" His eyes met theirs, the unspoken meaning hanging in the air.
Jinhai exhaled slowly. "So the boy could already be building power we cannot see. A sleeping dragon under our own roof."
Meiyun's lips curved faintly. "Perhaps Alter planned for this from the beginning."
Yangshen began to roll the scroll back up. "The question is—do we give it to him now?"
No one spoke at first. Then Yuying's voice broke the silence. "Yes. But it must be taught quietly. He will think it is simple breathing and posture work. No one else must know."
One by one, they nodded.
Yangshen secured the scroll in its case once more, sliding it back into his sleeve. "Then tomorrow… I begin."