While Yun Chuan was enjoying the warm, tender embrace of the Holy Lady of Spirit Hall—cradled in her arms and drifting into a blissful, milk-scented slumber…
On the other side of the continent, his twin brother Tang San could not have been having a more drastically different experience.
In a remote little village known as Holy Soul Village, inside its only blacksmith shop…
The air was perpetually thick with smoke, soot, scorching iron, and the endless clanging of hammer on steel. The walls were stained, the floors unswept—and the soundscape, a never-ending metallic cacophony.
In the back room, on a bed that was only barely clean enough to call a bed, a swaddled infant suddenly opened his eyes.
Those eyes didn't carry the blank, unfocused look of an ordinary baby—instead, they gleamed with clarity and depth far beyond his tender age, as though the soul inside belonged to a grown man.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The blacksmith's hammering from outside continued, and with it came the agonizing growl of an empty stomach.
Tang San, unable to endure it any longer, opened his mouth wide—
"Waaah! Waaahhh!!"
Unlike Yun Chuan, who was already walking and babbling at three months old, Tang San had no such cheat code. His body—though his mind was clear—was just that of a regular baby. He couldn't crawl, couldn't articulate speech, not even form syllables.
Clang…
The hammering suddenly stopped.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
A middle-aged man in his thirties or forties stepped inside. He looked worn-out, disheveled, and utterly defeated by life. Sweat matted his hair, and the layers of grime, oil, and stench made him appear less man than beast. In his rough, calloused hands was a chipped porcelain bowl filled with a pale yellow liquid. From the faint aroma, it was clearly some form of animal milk.
As the man approached, Tang San stopped crying. His hungry little eyes locked onto the bowl like a hunter spotting prey.
That bowl of milk… was life itself.
Tang Hao sat quietly at the bedside, placing the bowl down and picking up the baby with one arm. The moment Tang San was held, he found himself wrapped in a suffocating mix of unwashed sweat, ash, soot, and the acrid stench of rusted iron.
Urgh…
If Yun Chuan, currently bathing in the Holy Mother's scent and comfort, were somehow to switch places with his brother, he'd probably vomit on the spot.
But Tang San had grown used to it. Though he'd gagged in the beginning, adaptation came swiftly. After all, this man was his biological father… and he still depended on him for survival.
He had no choice but to endure it.
Tang Hao scooped up a spoonful of the reheated goat milk and began feeding the baby mechanically. His expression didn't change, not even by a fraction. There was no warmth, no tenderness. He held the child like one would hold a task, a burden… not a son.
From the moment his wife died giving her life for him, the light within him had vanished.
Tang San quietly drank the milk, one bitter sip at a time. His empty stomach gradually filled and warmed. While the milk was long left over from last night and had picked up a faint sour taste on top of its natural gamey smell, he had no choice.
If he didn't want to starve, he had to eat.
He'd been raised on this kind of milk since birth—coarse, unfiltered, stale goat milk. With time, even that which is foul can become familiar.
If Yun Chuan could witness his twin brother's early-life "treatment," he'd probably feel nothing but gratitude toward the people who'd kidnapped him at birth.
What kidnappers? Those people were saints!
They didn't abduct him—
They rescued him from hell!
Back at Spirit Hall—
Ever since that half-mumbled "Mama" had awakened Bibi Dong's long-buried maternal instincts, Yun Chuan's comfortable days had ascended to a whole new level of bliss.
He'd been moved out of the modest baby room where he'd spent the last three months, and into Bibi Dong's private royal chamber. From now on, he was co-sleeping with the Pope of Spirit Hall herself—and was being personally attended to morning and night.
The wet nurse who once took care of him? Dismissed.
Bibi Dong had decided to breastfeed and raise Yun Chuan herself, using the newborn's presence both to release her overflowing affection… and to finally cure her years-long trouble with lactation.
From dawn to dusk, after finishing her duties and meetings, the rest of the Pope's time was devoted entirely to this little child.
She didn't just raise him like a son.
She believed he was hers.
Yun Chuan, aware of his blessed situation, embraced the role to its fullest. He clung to her every gesture, spoiled her with coos and cuddles, and acted with just the right level of charm to maximize favor.
A month passed.
Yun Chuan was now four months old.
By now, he could stand shakily on his own two feet and take a few wobbly steps. His speech was becoming more coherent—not full sentences, of course, but just enough to melt Bibi Dong's heart whenever he called her "Mama."
Of course, Yun Chuan was deliberately holding back.
Sure, he could technically compose full sentences if he wanted, but that would be too suspicious. A four-month-old talking like a scholar? That would be asking for trouble.
So he played the genius baby role—but not too genius.
After all, the tallest trees catch the most wind.
One day, after a feeding session, Bibi Dong had left for her official duties as usual, leaving Yun Chuan to play alone in the room.
Most of the furniture with sharp edges or hazards had been removed, replaced by all sorts of plush toys and learning tools to keep the baby entertained.
Yun Chuan, now somewhat affected by his infant body and partially regressed mind, found himself genuinely entertained by the little puzzles and toys. He played with a cube that looked like a primitive Rubik's Cube, giggling as he turned the pieces.
The role of being a baby—it wasn't just something he performed… it had nearly melded with who he was.
Click—
The door handle turned.
Thinking that Bibi Dong had returned, Yun Chuan instinctively turned toward the doorway. He was just about to greet her with a sweet "Mama!"—but the word caught in his throat.
It wasn't Bibi Dong.
Standing there in the doorway was a small, slender figure—not yet even ten years old.
She had dazzling golden hair that shimmered like sunlight and beautiful golden eyes like clear spring water. Her features were so exquisite, she looked like a living doll—the perfect creation of a divine artisan.
She wore a pristine white dress that added to her otherworldly charm.
This golden-haired girl was the very definition of a top-tier loli.
But at this moment, she was staring at Yun Chuan with wide, hostile eyes—like he was a villain who had stolen her favorite toy. Her porcelain cheeks puffed up in anger, and her gaze locked on him with seething intensity.
Yun Chuan froze.
This couldn't be anyone else.
"Qian Renxue!"
He instantly recognized her.
Golden hair, golden eyes—and bold enough to barge into Bibi Dong's bedroom like it was nothing? Who else could it be but the Pope's own daughter?
(To be continued)