The wind howled faintly across the cliffs of Tianxu Mountains, carrying the scent of pine, cold mist, and something deeper—something older.
Feng Yinlei sat beneath the withered tree once more.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
Across from him, her robes still carrying the dampness of morning dew, Su Yan knelt in silence. Her gaze, steady and unwavering, was fixed on the boy the sect had long forgotten.
"Yinlei" she said softly.
Feng Yinlei flinched at the name.
Only his father had called him that once, long ago—before the Awakening Ceremony. Before the world had turned away.
He didn't look up. "Why are you here again, Su Yan?"
Su Yan exhaled. "You already know why."
He remained quiet, gaze lowered, fingers tracing faint patterns in the dirt.
She spoke again. "You're changing."
He said nothing.
"You move differently," she continued. "You're not just copying stances anymore. I saw you yesterday—when you stepped behind Jiang He and redirected his stance. That wasn't imitation. That was… guidance."
Feng Yinlei's fingers paused. "He could have been hurt."
"Yes," Su Yan replied. "But only someone with deep insight could've known how to adjust his qi flow in a split second. No scrolls. No instruction. Just silence. You're cultivating, aren't you?"
He looked up.
And for the first time, he didn't deny it.
Su Yan's expression softened. "You're not broken, Yinlei. You never were."
The words stirred something inside him.
He turned his gaze to the tree. The gnarled bark, the twisted branches, the faint shimmer of ancient veins that now occasionally flickered beneath moonlight.
"I used to believe that if I waited long enough… the heavens would eventually speak."
He paused.
"They didn't. But silence did."
Su Yan sat beside him.
The mist thickened around them, curling gently around the tree's roots. And then, as if stirred by their presence, the bark of the tree shimmered faintly.
A pulse.
Su Yan gasped.
"I felt that," she whispered. "What is this place?"
Yinlei closed his eyes.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But it remembers."
The moment stretched between them, filled with silence—not the absence of sound, but the presence of something ancient, something vast.
Suddenly, the quiet was broken by heavy footsteps on stone.
"Two rats under a dead tree. What a touching scene."
The voice was unfamiliar to Su Yan, but Yinlei tensed.
A figure emerged from the mist—tall, sharp-eyed, dressed in the robes of an inner disciple. His bearing was confident, almost regal, and his every step radiated arrogance honed through privilege.
Han Yifeng.
A newly promoted inner disciple, known for his ruthless temper and lineage tied to one of the sect's ruling elders.
He looked at Su Yan, then at Yinlei. "Didn't know they let ghosts gather under trees now."
Su Yan stood. "You're not supposed to be on the outer cliffs."
Han Yifeng sneered. "And you're not supposed to be consorting with trash."
He stepped forward, gaze flicking to Yinlei with cold amusement. "Ah, the mute rat speaks through silence now, does he?"
Yinlei didn't rise. He remained seated beneath the tree, unmoving.
Su Yan placed herself between them. "Leave."
Han Yifeng laughed. "Is this your new protector, Su Yan? I thought you had better taste."
Yinlei finally looked up. Calm. Empty.
"I won't fight you," he said.
Han Yifeng grinned. "That's what all weaklings say."
But when he took a single step closer to Yinlei, the air around the tree shifted.
A pulse.
The bark shimmered.
A low hum vibrated through the ground, subtle but unmistakable.
Han Yifeng paused. "What was that?"
Yinlei stood slowly, not in challenge, but with certainty.
"This place remembers," he said.
The wind stirred again.
Han Yifeng narrowed his eyes, unsure whether to laugh or retreat.
Su Yan stepped beside Yinlei.
"He's not alone."
Han Yifeng's sneer faltered, then hardened again. "Enjoy your games while you can. The sect doesn't protect trash forever."
He turned and vanished into the mist, footsteps echoing like fading thunder.
Silence returned.
Yinlei sighed.
Su Yan turned to him. "That was dangerous."
He nodded.
"But you didn't bow," she added, almost admiringly.
He didn't reply.
That night, Feng Yinlei sat beneath the tree alone once more.
The silence had returned—but not as it once was.
He placed both hands on the roots and closed his eyes.
Within him, the ember stirred again.
But this time, he didn't see a door.
He saw a memory.
A vision.
---
He stood in a field of lightning—not bolts, but threads. Threads of silver stretched across a vast plain, converging on a single tree—taller than mountains, older than time. Its branches shimmered with thunder that made no sound. And at its base knelt a child.
Not Yinlei.
Another.
The child pressed his hands to the ground and whispered something Yinlei could not hear.
But the threads responded.
They surged upward, coiling through the child's body, forming seals along his arms and chest.
One.
Two.
Dozens.
Each seal formed through understanding, not force.
Each pulse a memory.
Each silence… a key.
Then the child vanished.
And the field went dark.
---
Yinlei gasped awake.
His heart thundered, but his breath was calm.
The ember in his core pulsed.
And the second seal—truly this time—broke.
His body trembled.
Qi surged through him.
Not wild, not uncontrolled—but slow, measured, familiar.
Like an old friend.
He reached inward, touched it with his will.
And it responded.
Not like lightning.
Like memory.
---
The next day, the Zhenlei Sect stirred.
A disciple had collapsed during sparring—his meridians tangled after a failed thunder technique. No one knew how to help him.
No one but one.
Yinlei arrived quietly, observed the unconscious disciple, and without a word, placed a hand on his chest.
He closed his eyes.
Listened.
Then pressed gently in three places.
The disciple's breathing steadied. His pulse calmed.
When the elders arrived, the crisis had passed.
"Who did this?" one asked.
But Yinlei was already gone.
---
That evening, Su Yan found him beneath the tree again.
"Yinlei," she said, a hint of worry in her voice, "you've changed."
He didn't deny it.
"It's not power," he murmured. "Not yet. But it's… mine."
Su Yan sat beside him. "You're forging a path, aren't you?"
"I don't know what to call it," he admitted. "It doesn't roar. It doesn't shine. But it… remembers."
She smiled faintly. "Then remember me, when you become strong."
He looked at her. "You're part of it now."
They sat in silence once more.
But this time, it wasn't lonely.
This time, the tree shimmered faintly—and the wind carried the weight of something awakening.
The third seal waited.
And Feng Yinlei was no longer the boy without thunder.
He was the cultivator of memory.
The listener of silence.
And his Dao… had only just begun.