The nursery courtyard stirred awake with the noise of children. Laughter and shouts echoed between polished stone walls, mingling with the clatter of wooden practice swords and the patter of small feet chasing one another in games. Servants hurried along narrow paths, laying out breakfast bowls, folding bedding, combing hair that refused to stay neat. The faint smell of porridge and herbs drifted from the kitchens, carried on the crisp morning air.
For most, it was another morning in the Li Clan's endless rhythm. For Li Heng, it was the first step into something larger.
He sat quietly on a stool while his mother adjusted the ties of his robe. Lady Yan's hands were deft, smoothing every fold until not a crease remained. She bent close, her voice low but firm.
"Heng'er, today you walk into the Teaching Hall. From this day, you will be weighed not as a babe, but as a student of our clan."
Heng's gaze met hers. "I will listen."
Her expression softened, but her words did not. "Listening is only the beginning. Cleverness without patience breaks more than it builds. You must remember that."
She stepped back, and his father entered. Li Wei's presence was different—sharp-edged, disciplined, carrying the aura of one who expected order and would tolerate nothing less. He checked Heng's robe with one pull at the belt, then placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"Walk straight," he said. "Speak little. Do not rush to show. Roots before branches." His tone was flat, but his words struck deep. "Remember, Heng'er—Foundation cultivators govern cities. Core cultivators command provinces. Golden Core cultivators command armies. Nascent Soul cultivators rule worlds. That is the ladder you climb. But without roots, branches snap in the wind."
Heng bowed his head. "Yes, Father."
The courtyard beyond was already filled with the others of his generation. Cousins and side-branch children, gathered in tidy rows, watched with bright or nervous eyes.
Li Jian stood at the front, chest thrust forward, restless energy sparking from his every movement. Even at five, he carried himself like a commander rallying troops.
Beside him, Li Mei sat perfectly straight, small hands folded, her gaze sharp with quiet disapproval at Jian's swagger.
Li Qiang lingered a step behind, his brow furrowed, every gesture cautious as though he were testing ground before he dared step.
Li Wei—the boy, not the man—was already grinning as Heng joined them. "Ready to snore while old men talk?" His voice earned him a smack from a servant's fan.
Li Rou, side-branch daughter, kept her chin raised, eyes steady and defiant. Every motion seemed a statement: side branches would not be dismissed.
And Li Shun leaned lazily against a pillar, lids heavy, as though the morning itself was too much effort. But his eyes moved, catching everything, missing nothing.
They were six, and though they were only children, Li Heng felt a weight settle on him as he looked at them. These were the ones he would grow beside. Not caricatures, not nameless shadows—they had voices, tempers, dreams. Some would rise, some would fall, but they would shape him as much as he would shape them.
The bells tolled once more, vibrating through the air. Attendants ushered the children forward, through gardens and courtyards until the Teaching Hall came into view.
The structure loomed vast, its black stone carved with lines that shimmered faintly as if catching light from within. Names of tutors from centuries past were etched into its walls, each character cut deep, unmarred by time. Statues lined the path—generals, alchemists, array masters, architects—every one a reminder that the Li Clan endured not through luck, but through discipline and knowledge.
Inside, silence fell like a curtain. The chamber was immense, banners swaying high above. Jade inlays traced patterns across the floor, faint pulses of energy stirring beneath each step.
Three instructors waited at the front.
Master Qin, law scholar and Golden Core elder, stood with hands clasped behind his back. His gaze alone pressed upon the children, sharp enough to make their breaths catch.
Mistress Yao, with ink-stained hands, laid out brushes and silk, her movements precise, deliberate.
Instructor Han, scarred and plain-robed, carried himself like iron hammered into human form.
The children took their places in rows. None dared whisper.
Mistress Yao dipped her brush into ink and, with a single deliberate stroke, wrote upon silk:
氣
The character glowed faintly.
"Qi," she said. Her voice was calm, even, but it filled the hall as though the walls themselves carried it. "The breath of the world. Steam rising from rice, vapor from boiling water, wind through grass. Not fog. Not ghost. Motion that can be named, measured, directed."
Another stroke followed, swift and exact:
律
"Rule. Rhythm. Without it, Qi is smoke. With it, Qi is force."
Li Heng's chest tightened. Qi. The hum he had sensed since infancy, the vibration in walls and barriers, the weight in voices stronger than others—at last, it had a name.
Instructor Han stepped forward, lighting a stick of incense. Smoke coiled upward, twisting in thin spirals. He set small stones upon each child's belly.
"Breathe," he said. "If the stone does not rise, you lie. This is not cultivation. Not yet. This is discipline."
Jian inhaled too sharply; his stone bounced off his stomach and clattered across the floor. A ripple of laughter broke out until Han's eyes silenced it.
"Better to breathe through your nose," Han said dryly, "than to expel the lesson through it."
Mei's stone rose and fell with steady rhythm. Qiang's barely shifted until Han crouched beside him, voice low. "Eyes on the smoke. Do not fear it. Let it guide you." Slowly, the stone lifted.
Wei exaggerated his breath until his stone bounced up and down, earning him a sharp rap on the head from Mistress Yao.
Rou's stone rose in neat measure, her eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.
Shun's stone hardly moved at all, yet it did not fall—the subtle control of one who looked lazy, but watched carefully.
When Han reached Heng, their gazes locked.
"You've done this before."
"I have watched," Heng replied.
"Observation is good," Han said. "But rivers carve stone through repetition, not watching."
When the incense burned to ash, Mistress Yao handed each child a bamboo tag, each carved with Qi and Rule. "Trace them until your hand knows them in darkness. If you cannot write, you cannot think."
The session ended. Attendants guided the children out, their chatter rising again the moment the tutors turned away.
That night, Li Heng sat awake in the dim nursery. The lanterns burned low, the air heavy with silence. He pressed his palm against the barrier wall. The faint vibration stirred back, alive, undeniable.
Qi.
Not miracle. Not myth. Presence. System.
His mother's words lingered: cleverness without patience breaks more than it builds.
His father's echoed: roots before branches.
He breathed seven counts in, seven counts out. The barrier did not change.
But he did