The house had grown quiet again, but it was not peace. It was the fragile stillness of a field after thunder has passed, when every ear strains for the next strike.
The mother did not move from her place on the floor, still cradling Han-woo against her chest as though her body alone could seal away what had been revealed. Her eyes glistened, though no tears fell; she dared not show weakness, not even to herself.
Her husband stood near the door, his shadow long and sharp against the wall. His arms were folded, yet the tension in his body betrayed him.
"He cannot stay unnoticed," he muttered at last, voice taut. "Already the air itself bends when he cries. If the elders…" He cut himself short, pressing his lips into a hard line.
The mother's gaze rose, fierce despite her fear. "Then we will not tell the elders."
He turned to her sharply. "Do you think secrets last long in this place? A sect is a cage of eyes and ears. A slip, a single whisper…" He shook his head. "If they knew a child's Qi stirred this soon—they would take him."
Her grip tightened. "They will not take my son."
The words rang like a vow, brittle but unyielding. She rocked Han-woo gently, as if to soothe herself as much as him. His small breaths brushed her collarbone, fragile proof that he was still hers.
The father's jaw flexed. For a long moment, he said nothing, only paced again, his steps restless, heavy. At last, he halted, his back half-turned to her. "We must be careful. Speak less. Act as though nothing happened. Even among kin, trust is not safe."
Her brows drew together. "And if the signs grow stronger?"
His hand hovered at the hilt of a sword propped against the wall, fingers brushing the lacquered wood. He did not draw it, only rested there, silent. His answer, when it came, was low, reluctant.
"Then we pray the Heavens blind the world a little longer."
Silence stretched. Outside, night insects hummed, unaware of the storm that swirled in the small house.
The mother bowed her head, lips brushing Han-woo's dark hair again. But her whisper this time was not a lullaby. It was a promise—soft, fierce, half-plea, half-prayer:
"Han-woo, whatever they call destiny, you are mine first."
The father's pacing did not stop. Each turn of his steps seemed to scrape the silence raw. His wife's eyes followed him, but she did not speak; she feared that words themselves might summon listening ears.
At last, he exhaled, low and rough."We are too exposed here. If the outer disciples catch even a flicker of his stirring…" He shook his head. "They would not hesitate. A prodigy is never left in peace."
The mother's arms curled protectively around the small bundle at her chest. Her voice, though soft, was edged with steel."Then we bury the flicker. He is only a child. What need have they to know?"
His hand tightened at his side. "And what if his light blinds itself trying to hide? You think the sect elders would wait for his consent? You think they would grant him a childhood?"
She flinched at his words but did not yield. "Better a hidden spark than a flame consumed by greedy hands."
The father stopped pacing and stood in the doorway, staring into the blackness beyond the house. Somewhere in the distance, the faint clang of steel training echoed through the night air, followed by the guttural calls of older disciples drilling under torchlight. Even here, even now, the sect's rhythm pulsed without rest.
"They will sense him eventually," he muttered. "This is not the countryside. Aura clings to every breath. A stirring this early… it cannot be masked forever."
The mother pressed her lips to Han-woo's head once more, whispering so softly even her husband barely heard: "Then until the day they come, I will hold him. And when they reach for him, I will not let go."
The father turned, finally facing her fully. His expression was taut, but beneath the hardness there was a flicker of something more fragile—fear not of the sect, but of loss. He knelt beside her, his hand hovering just above Han-woo, not daring to touch, as if his own strength might break the child.
"We cannot oppose them," he said at last, voice almost breaking. "But perhaps… we can delay them."
Her eyes lifted sharply. "How?"
His gaze darted to the small shuttered window, then back. He lowered his voice until it was almost a breath."There are techniques—seals, veils of Qi. Risky, but they could muffle his presence. Not forever… but long enough."
The mother's breath caught. "Enough for him to grow. Enough for him to be more than a prize."
"Enough," the father echoed, though his tone held no certainty.
They both fell silent, listening to the faint rumbles of power in the distance. Somewhere beyond these walls, sect life thundered on—discipline, ambition, endless hungers. And here, in this fragile pocket of stillness, two parents weighed their love against the weight of a world that would devour it.
The father's hand finally settled, feather-light, on the child's blanket. He did not dare more than that."Han-woo," he whispered, almost to himself. "You must learn to be unseen."
The father's hand lingered on the swaddled bundle, the smallest thread of warmth passing between calloused palm and fragile flesh. The child stirred, a faint whimper pressed against the night, but did not wake.
In that silence, his words seemed heavier than any oath sworn before the sect's ancestral stone."Han-woo… you must learn to be unseen."
The mother bowed her head over the boy, her breath trembling against his hair. She did not answer aloud, for to speak was to risk the world hearing. But in the clasp of her arms, in the stillness of her heartbeat, she repeated the vow with him.
Outside, the night wind stirred through the eaves, carrying distant echoes of training cries and the sharp bite of steel on stone. Within, the vow settled like a seal pressed in blood—unspoken, unbroken, buried deep.
A secret, cradled in the dark.