The morning mist clung low over the Dragonridge Training Field. Sunlight lanced between the mountain ridges, catching the lacquered tiles of the martial platform in flashes of pale gold. Haotian stepped into the center, robes falling still around him, the weight of calm in every movement.
At his side, Lianhua walked in measured steps, her eyes flicking between him and the looming shape at the far end of the platform. She had insisted on accompanying him, though she kept silent now, sensing his focus.
From the veiled overlook, Wuhen stood with the other elders. Beside him, Zhenlong Yuying and several ancestors watched in silence.
The automaton stirred.
A deep roar rolled through the field as the blackstone giant rose, pale-blue fire igniting in its eyes. Runes along its limbs flared. Its steps sent tremors through the tiles.
Haotian's gaze did not waver.
The Eyes of the Universe opened. The world sharpened to threads and arcs of motion—the automaton's next three steps already etched into his mind.
It lunged. Steel arms cut through the air like falling gates, but he was already gone, sliding past in a movement so narrow it left the construct striking nothing but wind. His palm dropped to its knee joint—precisely where three structural lines crossed.
CRACK. The knee buckled.
The automaton twisted, left arm scything down. Haotian toggled the Eyes off—testing his instinct. The arm roared past, close enough to tug his sleeve, and in that instant he toggled the Eyes on again. The overcommitment was already written in its frame.
Pivot. Step. Palm strike.
"Second Layer—Heaven-Sundered Pulse."
The impact was silent but devastating. The automaton's chest plate crumpled inward, its blue eyes flickering once before fading to black. The giant sagged to its knees and fell still.
On the overlook, murmurs stirred. Wuhen's expression shifted—only slightly—but enough for Lianhua to catch.
She stepped forward to meet him as he descended from the platform. "You make it look too easy," she whispered.
The morning air was cool, carrying the faint scent of pine from the hills. Haotian padded barefoot across the polished stones of the courtyard, his small frame moving with purpose. The sleeves of his robe hung a little long on him, swaying with each step, but his eyes were steady.
He reached the study door and slid it open.
Inside, Wuhen sat at a low table, brush in hand, his movements slow and even. Without looking up, he said,"You're awake early."
Haotian stepped forward and bowed, his voice clear but still holding the lightness of youth."Father, I want to start something new."
That made Wuhen glance up. "Oh? And what would that be?"
"Alchemy." Haotian's answer came without hesitation. "I think… if I can learn to make medicine and pills, I can help people and myself. And it will make my hands better for other things too."
Wuhen's brow rose slightly. "Why alchemy first?"
"Because it needs carefulness," Haotian said earnestly, his small hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "If I can be careful with fire and herbs, I can be careful with anything. And I want to be good at everything."
A faint sound—almost a chuckle—escaped Wuhen. "And what will you need for this?"
"A room for alchemy," Haotian replied quickly, almost as if he'd been holding the words in. "With a cauldron. Shelves for herbs. And Sister Lianhua to help me. And maybe… two more people who are good with their hands."
The corners of Wuhen's mouth tilted, but his voice stayed even. "You've thought about this."
Haotian nodded, his expression serious in a way that looked almost comical on such a young face. "I have. Please let me start now."
After a moment, Wuhen set his brush down. "It will be arranged. But remember—alchemy teaches patience first. The pills are only a reward for those who can wait."
Haotian's lips curved into the smallest smile.
Haotian bowed low, his sleeves brushing the polished floor. "Thank you, Father," he said, his voice steady but with the faint brightness of a child trying to sound grown.
Wuhen gave a short nod, already returning to his scrolls. "Go. If you are serious, then show me through your work."
"Yes." Haotian straightened, eyes shining, and turned to leave. The soft shhk of the sliding door closed the study behind him.
Three days later, the alchemy room was ready.
The scent of fresh-cut sandalwood and oiled bronze filled the air. A polished cauldron sat at the center of the chamber, its surface reflecting the morning light. Along the walls, shelves held neatly arranged jars—some filled with dried herbs, others sealed with crystal lids to preserve their potency. Ventilation flues ran up to the roof, allowing thin shafts of sunlight to fall across the floor.
Sister Lianhua stood by the cauldron, her long sleeves tied back, watching as Haotian padded inside barefoot. "Your room is ready, little master," she said with a small smile.
Haotian shook his head. "I'm not a master yet. Just Haotian. And you're my Sister Lianhua."
Behind her, two servants bowed—both older, with steady hands and calm expressions. One carried a basket of spirit grass and crimson ginseng. The other bore a tray of crystal bottles filled with springwater.
Haotian's gaze swept over everything. His eyes lingered on the herbs, then on the cauldron. He stepped forward, small fingers brushing the cool bronze. "It's perfect," he murmured.
"What shall we make first?" Sister Lianhua asked.
He looked up at her, excitement flickering in his golden eyes. "A basic spirit-recovery pill. If I can't make something simple, I shouldn't try the hard ones."
They set to work.
Sister Lianhua lit the cauldron's fire while the servants rinsed and sorted the herbs. Haotian watched every movement closely, lips pursed in concentration. When the fire was ready, he took a long breath, recalling the diagrams from the library within him.
"Three pieces of spirit grass, sliced thin. One root of crimson ginseng—cut it evenly," he instructed, his voice crisp, yet still carrying that lightness of a nine-year-old.
The servants followed his directions without question. He placed the ingredients into the cauldron in a slow, deliberate order, stirring with a bronze rod. His movements were careful—almost too careful for a child his age—but his eyes never left the mixture.
The aroma began to change, the sharpness of the herbs softening into a warm, steady fragrance.
"Turn the fire lower. Just a little," Haotian said suddenly, holding up his hand. "If it's too hot now, the ginseng will burn inside."
Sister Lianhua adjusted the flame without a word.
Minutes later, the mixture thickened into a rich, golden paste. Haotian lifted the rod, nodded once, and said, "It's ready."
They poured the paste into a cooling tray. When it hardened, Haotian carefully shaped the pill with his own hands, his small fingers rolling the sphere with a surprising steadiness.
When it was done, he held the pill up to the light, smiling faintly. "Not perfect," he admitted, "but it will work."
Sister Lianhua exchanged a glance with the servants—none of them said it aloud, but they were thinking the same thing.
For a boy of nine, it was far more than they expected.
Haotian held the small golden pill between his fingers, its surface smooth and faintly warm. He glanced at Sister Lianhua. "It should work," he said simply, and without hesitation, popped it into his mouth.
The bitterness hit first, sharp as raw ginseng, but a moment later a wave of warmth spread through his chest. His breathing steadied, the faint fatigue from standing over the cauldron fading away.
"It works," he murmured, smiling faintly. "I can make it better next time."
That night, lying on his mat, Haotian replayed the entire process in his head—where the mixture could have been stirred slower, when the flame should have been adjusted earlier. By morning, he had already decided: alchemy would no longer be just a side practice.
He quietly set aside his morning calligraphy and reading. In their place, the alchemy room became his dawn ritual. Every day, Sister Lianhua and the two servants prepared the ingredients, while Haotian worked from recipes drawn from the golden texts only he could see in his inner world.
Some days he made simple spirit-recovery pills. Others, he brewed detoxifying draughts or soothing balms for muscle strain. Each batch was better than the last—his timing sharper, his control over the cauldron's heat more precise. By the third month, the fragrance of his work lingered in the corridors outside the alchemy room, drawing curious glances from passing servants.
But Haotian's curiosity was not limited to herbs and flame.
One afternoon, he walked alone to the army's blacksmith hall. The clang of hammers echoed before he even stepped inside. Sparks flew from the forges as broad-shouldered men shaped glowing steel into spears and armor.
The chief smith looked up from his anvil, frowning. "Little master, this is no place for—"
"I want to learn forging," Haotian said, his voice steady, golden eyes fixed on the man's.
The smith hesitated. "Forging is dangerous. And you…" He trailed off, glancing at the other craftsmen. All of them knew Haotian's identity. A boy of his bloodline did not belong in a place of soot and fire.
Haotian folded his arms, small but unyielding. "If I can control an alchemy fire, I can control a forge."
Before the smith could refuse, a servant entered, holding a sealed order. The man read it, his frown deepening—then his shoulders sagged.
The order bore Wuhen's seal.
Teach him.
And so, reluctantly, they began.
At first, Haotian was given simple tasks—bellows work, sorting ingots, watching the way the hammer met steel. But each day he returned, his hands steadier, his strikes more precise. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did ask a question, it was sharp and direct, forcing even the older smiths to pause before answering.
From then on, Haotian divided his days. Mornings belonged to alchemy, afternoons rotated between forging, formation carving, tailoring, and rune work. Yet alchemy remained his heart—every sunrise, he returned to the cauldron, determined to perfect his craft.
And though the years had not yet touched his face, and his voice still carried the tone of a child, the men and women who worked beside him began to notice something unsettling.
It wasn't just that Haotian learned quickly.
It was that he worked with the focus of someone who had no intention of stopping until he mastered everything.
The moon hung low over the estate, a silver lantern in the vast night sky. Behind the Zhenlong estate, the open fields stretched quiet and empty, the grass rippling in the cool wind.
Haotian's small figure darted between the shadows, his bare feet whispering against the earth. Each movement was sharp yet flowing—his footwork drawing from Phantom Steps and Silent Steps, while his strikes wove in the barehand forms and sword drills he had studied.
He would glide forward in a ghostlike pivot, then snap into a sudden palm strike. A side-step vanished into an arc step, carrying him behind an imaginary foe before a blade-hand cut through the air. His body moved in a rhythm that was neither purely martial nor purely evasive—it was his style, a blend born of hours of repetition and the patient layering of technique.
The grass swayed under the force of his movements. Breath after breath, his speed increased, his steps closing the gaps between strikes until the ground beneath him became a blur of shifting positions. Even without an opponent, the air shivered from the force of his blows.
By the time he stopped, the night was deep and the stars blazed clear above. Sweat rolled down his face, soaking into the collar of his training robe. His chest rose and fell in steady heaves, his legs trembling faintly from the constant motion.
Haotian lowered himself to the grass, crossing his legs. The cool earth against his skin grounded him. He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, the Heaven-Sundered Trinity Scripture unfolding in his mind like a silent chant.
The air around him shifted. Threads of qi from the world seeped into his meridians, flowing in three distinct streams—two sealed deep within his heart and mind, the third open and steady. The pain of exhaustion eased as the streams cycled through him, each breath drawing strength back into his limbs.
The night wind carried the distant sound of crickets. Above him, the moonlight pooled over the fields like silver water.
By the time Haotian opened his eyes again, the ache in his body had faded, replaced by a quiet, alert calm. He rose slowly, brushing the grass from his robes, and turned toward the estate. Tomorrow, the cycle would begin again—alchemy at dawn, forging in the afternoon, and martial training beneath the moon.
And each day, each night, he would sharpen every skill, step by deliberate step.