# Chapter 1: The Quiet Years
A pale dawn crept over Wu Tan City, painting the sky translucent gold. In the courtyard of the Xiao Clan, dew glazed the morning grass. Xiao Yu, the youngest son, moved soundlessly among the old camphor trees, his bare feet leaving faint imprints behind him. Muscles warmed by disciplined routine, he inhaled the chill air and exhaled in a measured breath—a rhythm he'd cultivated for years, a solitary liturgy that belonged to nobody but him.
By now, the entire estate was accustomed to passing him by. Among bustling servants, ambitious siblings, and the quietly crumbling pride of the main house, Xiao Yu had learned to fold himself into the scenery. Few noticed how early he rose, how late he trained, or how meticulous he was in his daily habits. To them, he was simply Xiao Yan's younger brother—the other one, the quiet one.
But Xiao Yu's eyes were sharp, his mind hungry. Every day, he watched as Xiao Yan, once the genius of the Xiao, endured the silent scorn of elders and peers. Xiao Yan, stripped of his Dou Qi talent, became a tragedy murmured about in passing. Yet Xiao Yu never lost faith in his brother—he admired his tenacity, tried in small ways to help him even when pride kept Xiao Yan isolated. He trained longer so that, when he sparred with Xiao Yan, he could cushion his brother's blows with subtle guidance instead of humiliation.
The morning's routine was etched in the marrow of his bones. He washed in a basin of rain-cooled water, the cold biting at sleep until his skin grew numb and pink. He dressed simply, binding black hair in a neat knot and tucking his plain robe at the waist with callused fingers. In the kitchen, where chestnuts and rice were always on hand, he prepared porridge—first for Xiao Yan, then for himself. The quiet labor soothed him. Steam curled above bowls, and for a moment, the world felt ordinary.
They usually ate together, though conversation was sparse. This morning, Xiao Yan sat hunched, his gaze dull with sleeplessness.
Xiao Yu spoke softly. "Did you dream again?"
Xiao Yan shook his head and forced a smile. "Just woke too early, that's all, Xiao Yu."
They shared breakfast in silence. Xiao Yu glanced at his brother, noting the tightness of his shoulders, the way his hands shook around the spoon. He wanted to ask if the jeers and whispers hurt; instead, he offered another helping of porridge, saying nothing.
Afterwards, Xiao Yan returned to his own training, doggedly working the basic forms—familiar, automatic. Xiao Yu lingered, tidying up. Once alone, he slipped outside, retrieving a battered wooden staff from the shadowed eaves. The courtyard was empty, save for birds picking at the edges of the garden.
He warmed up—ankle rotations, deep knee bends, slow wrist circles—each movement precise. Then he slid into a series of martial forms, beginning with the foundation techniques every child in the Xiao was taught only to be forgotten as soon as anyone revealed a spark of real talent. To Xiao Yu, even the basics were worth perfecting. His breaths formed mist in the cool air.
Even as he moved, his thoughts wandered. He remembered Xiao Yan before the regression—radiant, cocky, beloved by the elders. Now, the disparity between past and present gnawed at him. Xiao Yu had always known he was not a genius, but there was a steely stubbornness that woke with him every morning. He resolved, again, to be as strong as he could—if not for fame, then for his brother's sake.
The sun rose, brightening the courtyard. Xiao Yu worked himself into a sweat, switching to drills: high kicks, rapid stabs, a flurry of jabs with the staff. Each muscle fiber ached by the time he finished, but the exhaustion was sweet and clean.
After bathing and changing, he delivered clean altars to the ancestor tablets in the clan hall—a duty ignored by others but sacred to him. Along the way, he greeted the clan's cook and shy healer, nodding to a few younger children who clustered near the gardens. No one asked where he'd been; no one wondered.
The morning's business grew as the household awakened. Older siblings sparred in the main yard; elders held council in cedar-floored meeting rooms. Xiao Yu drifted among them, bearing messages, fetching tea, carrying baskets. He helped mend a fence, repaired the lock on a storeroom door, and watered the kitchen's herb garden, never complaining.
At midday, he returned to his cramped room—little more than a cot, a chest, and a writing table. Scrolls, old and new, lined the shelves. He opened one and traced a passage about ancient Dou Techniques, wishing—not for the first time—that the family library held anything more than basic manuals. He read anyway, soaking up knowledge with patient hunger.
In the afternoon, he brewed a medicinal tea for Xiao Yan, leaving it at his brother's door. Xiao Yan accepted with a nod, offering nothing more, but Xiao Yu glimpsed gratitude in his tired eyes.
Evening closed in, city lamps flickering alive outside the manor's walls. The household dined together in a low, murmurous mood. Xiao Yan sat with eyes cast down. Xiao Yu kept an unobtrusive vigil from across the table, observing, waiting.
After dinner, Xiao Yu washed his hands and went to the quiet corner of the rear garden. There, beneath a moonlit magnolia, he closed his eyes and meditated, sinking into breathing exercises taught by no one. He imagined gathering Dou Qi, weaving it through the channels of his body like the stories promised. It was slow, incremental, but every shred of progress mattered.
When the house finally quieted, Xiao Yu returned to his chamber, body sore but mind alight. He journaled a few cryptic notes about martial practice, lessons learned, his brother's silent courage. Then he lay down, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling as darkness gathered.
And though no one saw it, and no one knew, a single thought pulsed at the center of his being—a wish, a promise:
Tomorrow, he would do it all again. For himself. For Xiao Yan. For a future that, despite everything, he still dared to imagine.