The morning sun had barely risen, its pale gold light seeping through the paper windows of the eastern wing. The Zhenlong estate lay in its usual stillness—until that stillness broke.
Somewhere in the quiet quarters, a breath hitched.
Young Haotian's eyes fluttered open.
Something felt wrong. Or… different.
He pushed himself upright, small hands trembling as his gaze swept the dimly lit chamber. Dust still lingered from the reconstruction after the ancestral ceremony. The memory of collapsing beneath the ancestral altar pressed faintly on his mind, like a dream too heavy to recall. But what caught his eye now… was the mirror resting on a fallen lacquer shelf.
Drawn to it, he crawled forward, knees brushing the wooden floor. The mirror's glass was cracked, but enough remained to catch his reflection.
He froze.
Those weren't his eyes anymore.
Within his irises, two golden spirals turned slowly, like miniature galaxies set adrift in the night sky. They weren't merely glowing—these vortexes moved on their own, endless and soundless, pulling in the very light around them. They felt as though they were watching everything… knowing everything.
A sharp gasp tore from his throat—then a scream.
The sound cleaved through the estate like a blade.
Servants dropped their trays. Elders broke from meditation. From every corner of the manor, footsteps thundered toward the source. Great-Grandmother Yuying, Great-Grandfather Yangshen, Grandfather Jinhai, Grandmother Meiyun, and Father Wuhen all moved as one, their auras stirring the air.
They reached the shattered chamber.
There—sitting on the floor amidst fractured wood and cracked plaster—was Haotian. The mirror clutched in his trembling hands. Tears streaked his small face. His shoulders quivered.
The elders halted, struck silent.
When he turned to them, his cheeks were puffed and wet with emotion—but his gaze… his gaze was a pair of universes. Spirals of gold, infinite and unblinking.
No one dared speak. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
"…What do I do now?" His voice was small, aching.
Great-Grandfather Yangshen moved first, crossing the rubble and kneeling beside him. He lifted the boy easily, ignoring the strange divine weight those eyes carried. "You'll be fine," he said with a warm smile. "You look incredible with those eyes."
Haotian shook his head against the elder's shoulder. "I look like a freak… Everyone's going to be scared of me."
Yangshen straightened his back with mock outrage. "Scared? Good! Let them be! If anyone dares trouble you, your Great-Grandfather will turn them to dust!" His booming laugh echoed off the walls.
A sharp smack landed on his arm. "That is not how you comfort a child, you ox," Great-Grandmother Yuying scolded, sweeping Haotian into her arms. She brushed a stray lock from his brow. "You have beautiful eyes, little one. Girls will line up to stare into them one day—just wait."
"…They still look weird," Haotian sniffled.
Father Wuhen pinched the bridge of his nose. "A headache. Of course."
From the doorway, a small voice spoke up. "I… I like your eyes."
It was his younger sister, barefoot, hands curled shyly around the doorframe.
Haotian blinked. "Really?"
She nodded with a smile. "They look like stars… like you're dreaming while awake."
His lips twitched into the faintest smile.
Grandfather Jinhai's voice broke the moment. "Was there anything in the scrolls the ancestor left that explains—or reverses—this?"
Yangshen snapped his fingers. "Yes! The Eyes of the Universe! I remember—the scroll said they could see through all illusions, peer into darkness, even reveal the strengths and flaws of cultivation techniques!"
Grandmother Meiyun's brows arched. "And can it be cultivated? Or removed?"
"…I don't remember," Yangshen admitted. He turned to Haotian. "Do you still have the scroll?"
The boy tilted his head. "Maybe… in my room?"
Every adult froze.
His chamber had been half-destroyed by the energy backlash.
"There's no way it survived," Grandfather Jinhai muttered.
Father Wuhen waved a hand. "Check anyway."
Minutes later, a servant rushed in, panting. "Honored elders! We found it—embedded in the outer wall, sealed in dragonbone lacquer."
They handed the scroll to Yangshen. He unfurled it, but frowned. "…I can't read this."
Haotian's eyes widened. As he gazed at the parchment, golden glyphs rose from its surface, forming lines of celestial text visible only to him.
"Act naturally. Do not let the others know you can see this. Only your Eyes of the Universe can."
His breath quickened.
The scroll shifted again:
"Within this scroll are techniques, perception arts, and methods to master the Eyes of the Universe. To awaken control, touch the scroll and recite: I WILL BECOME A GOD OF HEROES."
Haotian flushed. "Great-Grandmother… can you put me down?"
She set him on his feet. He stepped toward Yangshen, laid a hand on the glowing parchment, and whispered the words under his breath.
"…I will become a god of heroes…"
The text flared in his mind: LOUDER.
His fists clenched.
Then, with all the breath in his small body, he roared:
"I WILL BECOME A GOD OF HEROES!!!"
The shout shook the estate. Windows rattled. Birds scattered from the trees. The koi pond rippled under the force.
The scroll shattered into motes of gold that streaked into Haotian's eyes, spiraling inward. His knees buckled under the surge of energy.
Then—stillness.
When his eyes opened again, the spirals were calm but steady, their focus sharp.
Haoyue stood still, eyes closed. His expression shifted from confusion… to understanding.
He could see the texts now.
Not on paper—but inside.
Dozens of divine techniques. Doctrines of vision, reflection, perception. Battle stances that decipher flaws mid-combat. Arts that could peel illusions like silk. And a final technique—Vision Lock—which would allow him to turn the Eyes of the Universe on or off at will.
He opened his eyes slowly.
"…I think I understand now," he whispered—and for the first time since awakening, he smiled.
The candlelight had long since faded from his room, yet Haotian's mind still burned with what had just occurred. The Eyes of the Universe—golden spirals now calm, their restless turning subdued—had shown him visions and secrets no child should have been able to hold. But the scroll's voice lingered in his thoughts, quiet yet immovable: Act normally. Learn to see. Learn to control.
The chamber was quiet now, save for the soft crackle of incense drifting from the dragon-etched brazier. Haotian sat on a low cushion, his small fingers curled nervously into the hem of his sleeves. Even with the scroll now gone, the weight of its revelation pressed against his heart.
He turned toward Granduncle Wuhen, who stood at the doorway as always—arms crossed, gaze like a steel wall.
"…Father," Haotian asked softly, "may I go to the training field today?"
Wuhen's brows pressed into a stern line. "No."
Haotian blinked. "Why not?"
"It is dangerous," Wuhen replied. "That field is filled with soldiers, mercenaries, and wanderers from our outer divisions. Many have not sworn oaths to protect you. I will not risk exposing you to them."
Great-Grandmother Meiyun, seated quietly nearby, glanced sideways but said nothing.
From behind came Great-Grandfather Yangshen's voice, calm yet curious. "Why do you wish to go, little one?"
Haotian looked down, then back up—nerves flickering in his chest, but his gaze steady.
"…I need to practice."
Yangshen tilted his head.
"I have to learn to use my eyes," Haotian said earnestly. "If I don't get used to what I'm seeing, I'll never understand how to control it. The scroll said observation is the first method."
Yangshen stroked his beard.
Wuhen interjected, "He can observe later. With illusion stones or projection mirrors—"
"No," Yangshen cut in firmly.
The air stilled.
He stepped forward, placing a hand on Wuhen's shoulder. "Let him watch. From a distance. He will not be seen, and he will learn. You know as well as I do—some techniques cannot be grasped through mimicry alone. Especially not those eyes."
Wuhen looked toward Meiyun. She gave a faint nod.
"…Very well," Wuhen said at last. "But he remains hidden. If even one soldier notices him, we withdraw immediately."
Haotian's eyes lit up. "Thank you!"
Not long after, they stood together in the shaded overlook behind a thick veil of bamboo and rune-threaded cloth—a high commander's perch long unused. Mist clung to the air, and layered enchantments masked their presence. Below, the Dragonridge Training Field spread wide—hardened earth platforms, mana-sensing poles, formation markers, and lines of soldiers moving in synchronized drills.
Steel rang against steel. Sparks leapt through the air. Footwork pulsed with chi. The shouts of instructors rolled like thunder across the courtyard.
Haotian stepped forward, clutching the railing. His golden spiral eyes slowly widened.
"…I can see everything."
Wuhen's voice came low. "Do not overstrain yourself."
But Haotian was calm. He closed his eyes, breathed once, and activated the first vision channel—Thread of Focus.
The field changed.
Pressure lines traced across the ground. Aura trails lingered in the wake of every movement, with shadow echoes revealing where a warrior would step next. His vision drew close, then stretched far, as if the world itself bent to his focus.
And then—he saw it.
A faint red glow bloomed at the shoulder of one sparring soldier. Another at the rib. Six more scattered across joints and muscle lines.
"…Red lights…?" he murmured.
"What is it?" Meiyun asked.
Haotian didn't answer. His attention locked on one of the raised stone platforms, where an instructor barked orders during a one-on-one spar.
Two soldiers clashed. The younger was fast—but his balance faltered.
"Your form is weak!" the instructor snapped. "Too high in the elbow—your pivot exposes your flank!"
The instructor's staff struck—rib, thigh, shoulder blade.
Haotian's eyes widened. Each blow matched exactly three of the glowing red points he'd seen seconds earlier. But five remained untouched.
"…He didn't see them all," Haotian murmured.
"What?" Wuhen asked, turning.
Haotian pointed. "There are five more weaknesses. Back knee. Lower spine. And three appear when he overextends the second slash…"
Wuhen's gaze sharpened. "You can see that?"
Haotian nodded slowly. "…They glow. I think they're flaws in movement… or breaks in chi flow."
Meiyun folded her arms. "He sees beyond form… into the current itself."
The spar ended, another began, and the red lights shimmered again—undetected by anyone but him.
From the far side of the overlook, a soft voice broke in.
"It is a shame to turn them off, you know."
Haotian turned. Lianhua—daughter of the second branch—had slipped in quietly, her pale sleeves trailing like falling petals. Her gaze was fixed on his spiraling eyes. "They are… beautiful. Like holding the night sky in your gaze."
Haotian flushed faintly. "I can control them. Turn them on… or hide them whenever I want."
Her lips curved into a gentle smile. "Still… I think the world would be lesser without them."
Haotian said nothing—his attention drifting back to the soldiers below.
The flaws gleamed again.
He clenched his fists.
"…I want to learn more."
Wuhen's eyes narrowed with a weight that held both pride and wariness. Meiyun's expression stayed unreadable. Lianhua, however, only watched in quiet fascination—her gaze lingering on the boy who could now see the threads that held a warrior's strength… and the seams that could tear it apart.
The veiled overlook above the Dragonridge Training Field was steeped in morning light, the kind that pooled gold along the edges of the bamboo veil and scattered faint motes into the mist. The sun hung above the far peaks like a great pearl, its glow painting the training ground below in warm amber.
The ground shook under the disciplined thunder of boots. Hundreds of soldiers moved in perfect squares and diamonds, spears and swords rising and falling like the breaths of a single giant beast. Barked cadence rolled up toward the hidden perch, echoing off the walls.
Haotian stood small but unblinking beside Granduncle Wuhen and Great-Grandmother Meiyun, the concealment veils hiding their presence. Beyond the railing, the formation rotated, broke into two wings, then rejoined—every movement crisp, measured, and rehearsed over months.
At first, there was nothing.
No red lights.No glimmers of weakness.Only the ordered rhythm of men and steel.
Then—his golden spiral eyes narrowed.
"…There," Haotian murmured.
A faint red shimmer blinked into life at the rear of a moving column. Another followed. Then five more—glinting like droplets of blood on invisible glass.
Wuhen's head turned sharply. "What do you see?"
Haotian lifted one small arm, pointing. "Weakness in the formation line. The pressure here—" he traced a diagonal from center to rear "—if the enemy struck from this angle, the west side would break in three breaths."
Great-Grandmother Meiyun tilted her head. "How can you tell?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze swept eastward, studying a different squad. "Eastern column… row six… second from the front. Him. And the soldier to his left. They're lagging—half a step behind. The others are covering for them, but it's already pulling the whole flank off balance."
Wuhen frowned. "That's an advanced formation. They've trained together for months."
Below, the proof came.The eastern wing faltered mid-turn—steps crossing, spear points tangling. The rear tried to compensate, but the ripple had already fractured the line. In moments, that flank crumbled, just as Haotian had said.
"…He was right," Meiyun murmured.
Haotian finally turned from the field, meeting their eyes. "The red lights show more than just a person's flaws. They show patterns—weakness in the structure itself."
Neither elder spoke. But their silence was no longer disbelief—it was the weight of realization.
Before they could move away, a soft voice drifted from behind. "I can't believe I'm seeing it."
Lianhua stepped into the light of the veil, her hands clasped at her front. She had been stationed as part of the inner guard today, but her eyes—wide and almost reverent—were locked on Haotian's. "Those eyes… it's almost a shame to hide them."
Haotian blinked at her. "I can control them. I can turn them off whenever I want."
A smile ghosted across her lips. "Then show me."
He hesitated. Then he turned back toward the field, scanning the squads again. In his vision, the red points returned instantly—on soldiers, on weapons, on the spaces between them. He focused on a single man in the dummy field, a wooden construct whirling strikes against him. Two red points glowed on the man's stance.
"Alright… off," Haotian whispered under his breath.
He willed the spirals to dim, the glow to fade. His gaze blurred, the red points flickering—then vanishing entirely. The world returned to its plain, unmarked state.
Lianhua's eyes lit. "You did it."
Haotian let out a slow breath. "It's not hard… turning them off. The hard part…" He glanced back to the soldier, willing the spirals to return. In an instant, the golden lines spun back into focus—bringing with them a web of bright crimson points. "…is switching back and forth fast."
"Then keep doing it," she urged softly. "Train the change until it's effortless."
He nodded, and began toggling—on, off, on, off—faster each time. But with each switch, the reappearance of the red points came sharper, more detailed. Soon, the soldiers were no longer just dotted; some were laced with glowing threads from foot to shoulder, entire arcs of motion prewritten before they moved.
His temples began to throb. He grit his teeth, forcing one more switch—
And the lights multiplied.
They sprawled across every soldier in view, tangled through the dummies, burned into the very earth where footsteps had been. It was no longer analysis—it was flood. The vision pushed at the inside of his skull until his eyes watered without him noticing.
"…Too much…"
He shut his eyes hard, spirals extinguishing. His breath came ragged. A single tear slid down his cheek, caught halfway by his sleeve.
"Enough." Wuhen's voice was low, but final.
Haotian didn't argue. "Let's go home," he whispered.
Wuhen walked beside him in silence all the way back, Lianhua trailing close behind, her earlier fascination now edged with worry.
They passed through the shaded walkways of the estate without a word. The air was thick with the scent of pine resin and old rain caught in the roof tiles. Haotian's steps were steady but small, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, the spirals in his eyes dimmed to a quiet gold.
Lianhua remained close behind, still processing what she had seen. The speed, the precision—yes—but also the sudden fragility that came with it. She kept glancing at his face, half-expecting to see another wince or drop of sweat. There was nothing. Only a boy's stillness.
Wuhen led them past the bronze courtyard gates and into the heart of the Zhenlong Estate. A servant peeled away to announce their arrival ahead.
The doors to the Ancestors' Hall opened.
Inside, golden scrolls swayed in slow arcs, suspended on invisible threads of qi. The chamber's air was heavier here—weighted with incense and the residue of centuries-old oaths. A single lacquered table stood in the center, tea steaming faintly upon it.
Yangshen sat at the head, pouring tea without lifting his gaze.Meiyun stood by the window, her arms folded in thought.Jinhai entered last, his pace deliberate, each step soft against the polished floor.
Wuhen guided Haotian forward, then knelt on one knee. "Honored Seniors," he began, his tone respectful but edged with urgency, "we have just come from the Dragonridge Training Field. The boy… displayed what can only be described as full predictive battle sight."
Yangshen's hand paused on the teapot lid. "Explain."
Wuhen did. Every detail. How Haotian identified formation weaknesses without a hint of hesitation. How he singled out two soldiers lagging by less than a step. How moments later, the very collapse he predicted unfolded exactly as he described.
He recounted the second half—how, during solo drills, every soldier in the dummy field lit up under Haotian's gaze. Red points on stances, pivots, strike paths. How the boy had attempted to toggle the sight on and off at will.
Here, Lianhua stepped forward, bowing. "Honored Seniors… I was present as well. He succeeded in turning the sight off, then back on—several times. Each return brought sharper detail than the last. But…" Her voice softened. "By the end, the markings overwhelmed his vision. He shut his eyes and tears fell—not from fear, but the strain."
Meiyun's gaze sharpened. "And yet he still forced the switch until it broke him."
Lianhua nodded once.
Yangshen finally looked up. "Too young," he said flatly. "The eyes are still raw. He has no filters—no understanding of what to let in and what to keep out. If left unchecked, the vision will not fade when he closes his eyes."
Jinhai's voice joined, calm but weighty. "This was not chance. This was an active attempt to control the Eyes of the Universe. Already he touches the edge of mastery, even if it cuts him in return. That is no ordinary child's will."
Wuhen's fists tightened against the floor. "I should have stopped him sooner. But I didn't expect such precision."
Yangshen placed the teapot down, the porcelain clicking softly against the tray. "Then you must teach him to look less. To control not only the opening of the eyes, but the decision to keep them closed. That choice will decide whether he is consumed—or whether he learns to wield what sleeps inside him."
Meiyun's gaze slid toward the boy, her expression unreadable. "This is only the beginning."
Haotian stood silently between them all, his hands loosely clasped in front of him, head slightly bowed. But his eyes—dim as they were—still caught the faintest reflection of the incense light, spirals turning once in quiet defiance.
The scent of the tea lingered. The scrolls shifted on an unseen breeze. And somewhere deep beyond the polished wood and the quiet breathing of elders… the truth of what he carried waited, unspoken.
It began as a whisper—no louder than the sound of his own breathing in the stillness of meditation. Haotian sat cross-legged within his quiet chamber, the fragrance of sandalwood incense curling in lazy threads toward the rafters.
And then the whisper bloomed into a flood.
The moment his consciousness sank deeper into the inner sea, the darkness parted, revealing a boundless expanse lit by drifting motes of gold. In that space, texts—countless scrolls, bound volumes, and etched tablets—floated in slow orbits, as though they had been waiting for centuries.
When his hand brushed one, knowledge poured into him.
He saw alchemy in its most basic forms—herb properties, cauldron temperatures, the sequence of infusion. Forging followed, with diagrams of hammer strokes and heat cycles that seemed to echo in his bones. Formations—circles, nodes, and flow lines—unfolded like maps. Runes, sharp and deliberate, pulsed with faint light. Even tailoring and leatherworking revealed themselves, patient crafts that spoke of precision.
But there was more.
Two movement techniques stood apart, their pages weightless yet potent:Phantom Steps—for vanishing between heartbeats, turning movement into mist.Silent Steps—for walking unseen, where the ground itself seemed to forget you had passed.
Martial arts texts emerged next, barehand combat manuals marked with coiled energy, sword techniques traced in silver ink. All of it was basic—deliberately so. Yet it was not the simplicity of ignorance, but the precision of a master laying a foundation stone. Every page, every diagram, every footnote felt as though it had been written for him.
From that day, Haotian shaped his life around them.
Mornings began with calligraphy—slow, deliberate brushwork that tempered his breathing and sharpened his mind, followed by long stretches of reading from the floating texts until the sun warmed the courtyards.
Afternoons were for the body. He drilled movement until his legs burned, paired sparring until his shoulders ached. Every session ended with the Eyes of the Universe—testing their reach, sharpening their clarity, and learning to toggle them as easily as drawing breath.
Evenings fell to silence. While the lanternlight swayed on the paper walls, he returned to the inner library, committing each page to memory until sleep finally claimed him.
Days turned to months. Months, to years. The boy who once stared in awe at the power of others now built his own, brick by deliberate brick.
Which is why, on the morning the training automaton was brought to the Dragonridge Field, Haotian walked to the center with a calm far too deep for his age.