The night stretched on, heavy with silence. Neither parent dared to sleep.
The father sat cross-legged by the door, his eyes fixed on the shifting shadows outside. Every rustle of leaves, every faint echo from the training grounds, made his hand drift to the sword resting across his knees.
The mother moved in whispers, never louder than the flicker of the lamp. She ground herbs into powder, mixed oils in careful drops, and bound them in silk packets—remedies for fevers, tonics to hide traces of Qi, medicines they might need if someone noticed too much. Her motions were steady, but her hands trembled when she thought he wasn't watching.
Their voices came sparingly, little more than breath in the stillness.
"Not a word outside these walls.""Even among kin.""Especially among kin."
They both knew that one slip, one careless tone in the wrong ear, could summon suspicion. And suspicion in this world meant judgment, and judgment could mean death.
The baby stirred once more in the cradle. His cry was soft, but both parents froze as if thunder had cracked overhead. The mother rushed to hush him, pressing warmth and milk against his lips. The father's grip tightened on his sword until the wood of the scabbard creaked.
When quiet finally returned, they exchanged a long, hollow look. No reassurance passed between them. Only the weight of the vow they had already made.
By the time dawn crept into the sky, both knew what they carried was no blessing. It was a burden—too great to share, too dangerous to speak.
As the first light of dawn seeped through the thin shutters, the parents moved with purpose, still careful not to wake the child fully.
"We must obscure his presence," the father said quietly, pacing the floor again. "Even if he cries, even if he moves, the aura must remain hidden. The elders will notice subtle ripples if we are careless."
The mother nodded, her hands shaking as she organized small bundles of herbs and powders. "Then we mask it," she said. "Every breath, every sigh. If he begins to show strength, we dampen it. Teach him quiet, patience… make the world think him ordinary until he is ready."
He paused, leaning against the wall, eyes dark. "And if the tests come sooner than we expect?"
She glanced at him sharply, jaw tight. "Then we create… a false child. A shadow of him. Something the world can see while he remains hidden. Safe. Untouched."
The father's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword again, thoughtful. "It will require discipline. The household, our habits… everything must conform. Even small mistakes—sleeping patterns, milk times, cries—must be monitored."
She exhaled slowly, her forehead pressed to Han-woo's soft hair for a moment. "I will manage him. Every moment. Every movement. He will never be alone with the world."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And I… I will prepare for what comes from outside. Distractions, misdirections… any eyes that wander here."
They paused, listening to the baby's even, small breaths. Even now, his aura pulsed faintly, responding to the invisible rhythms of the house, to the quiet, careful words of his parents.
"Everything we do," she said finally, voice low and steady, "is to give him time. Time to grow, time to become… something they cannot claim too early."
The father nodded once. "Time. That is all we can buy him."
And together, in the fragile half-light of dawn, they began to map the invisible defenses—plans that were whispered, drawn in shadows, never written, never spoken outside these walls.
The burden they bore was immense, but it was theirs alone.
Han-woo slept, unaware, his small chest rising and falling, the first tendrils of destiny brushing against him, and yet unseen.