In the Li Clan, even childhood was structured.
The nursery pavilion was more than a chamber of rest. It was an institution, guarded and maintained like a fortress. Guards stood watch at every gate, their qi-trained eyes alert. Nursemaids worked in shifts as though in military rotation. Attendants recorded the smallest details on jade tablets, engraved and stored in the Pavilion of Records.
When a child first crawled, it was noted.
When a child first stood, it was marked.
When a child first spoke, it was written and reported.
The Li Clan ruled seventy billion lives not by chance, but through system. Even words became history.
---
By his second year, Li Heng's silence had drawn notice.
Most children babbled by their first spring. They mispronounced titles, called to mothers, shouted in play. Some did so early, some late, but always they made noise.
Li Heng, though, remained quiet. He listened. He observed. His eyes followed movements with unsettling clarity for one so young.
The nursemaids gossiped when they thought him too young to understand.
"Too quiet."
"Always watching."
"Strange eyes, sharp as elders'."
One older servant shook her head. "Not strange. Careful. He waits."
They did not know how true it was.
---
That morning was clear, light streaming through carved windows, lotus fragrance drifting from the gardens. His mother leaned over him, voice soft as she hummed a lullaby. Her hand brushed his cheek, her eyes warm with exhaustion and affection.
For months, Li Heng had rehearsed. In his mind, the word was shaped, refined, tested in silence. He had chosen it carefully. The first word must not be wasted. It must bind, not alarm.
His lips parted. His tongue stumbled. But the sound left him, simple and clear.
"...Mother."
The chamber froze.
The nursemaids gasped, attendants stopped writing. His mother's body stiffened, then shivered as tears welled in her eyes. She gathered him close, her arms trembling, her lips repeating the word as if to engrave it in her very heart.
"Mother," she whispered again and again. "Mother… you called me…"
For her, it was a miracle. For him, it was timing.
---
In the days that followed, whispers spread.
"He speaks early."
"Clearer than others."
"Auspicious sign."
Some spoke with awe, others with simple joy. No one mocked, no one envied. The Li Clan had rules, and in this place, children were not measured by rivalry alone. A child's progress was a blessing to the family as a whole.
Still, every note was recorded. Every whisper, logged. The Li Clan missed nothing.
---
It was three days later when his father came.
The chamber's air shifted as he entered, attendants straightening, guards bowing low. His mother rose, her eyes softer in his presence. His father, son of the Patriarch, carried authority not in shouts but in silence. His steps were measured, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.
He looked down at Li Heng.
The boy's small body lay wrapped in silk. His eyes — far too calm for his age — met his father's.
Li Heng's thoughts sharpened. This was the second word. It must be chosen with equal care. Enough to bind, not enough to raise suspicion.
His breath caught, his lips moved.
"Father."
The attendants froze again. The nursemaids bowed, their faces lit with awe.
His father did not smile. His eyes lingered, assessing. Then, slowly, he nodded once. A small gesture, yet it carried weight. Approval, recognition, calculation. Then he turned, his robe sweeping behind him as he left.
---
That evening, the attendants whispered.
"Both parents named."
"Too early, too clear."
"Blessed child, perhaps favored by the ancestors."
One scribe carefully inscribed the words into the jade tablet. From there, it would pass to the Pavilion of Records. From there, to elders in council. Perhaps it would be nothing more than a note among thousands. Perhaps, in time, it would be remembered.
---
Li Heng lay awake that night. His small body was still weak, his words few. But his mind was steady.
He could have spoken more. He could have recited full phrases if he wished. But he did not. Words carried weight. Too much weight, if used carelessly.
On Earth, he had seen arrogance burn bright and die young. In novels, in classrooms, in life — those who spoke without measure revealed too much, too soon.
He was not hiding. He was choosing.
Not less. Not more. Just enough.
---
His mother came once more, kissing his brow before leaving him to rest. Guards rotated with military precision. Nursemaids lowered their voices, settling the room. The barrier in the walls hummed faintly, as steady as breath.
And in that silence, Li Heng's thoughts lingered.
Two words spoken.
Enough to anchor affection.
Enough to prove normalcy.
Enough to ripple outward in records and whispers.
The rest would wait.
For in the Li Clan, even words became history. And he would not squander history carelessly.