The rain fell heavily over Spirit City that night.
Dark clouds pressed against the spires of the immense cathedral, their shadows swallowing the golden light that usually illuminated the holy capital of Spirit Hall. Lanterns flickered against the storm, but their glow was weak, unable to push back the oppressive night.
Inside, the echo of hurried footsteps resounded through the marble corridors of the Supreme Pontiff Palace. A woman walked swiftly, her robes trailing behind her like a river of violet. Her expression was cold, noble, but the storm reflected in her eyes was far fiercer than the thunder outside.
Bibi Dong. Supreme Pontiff. The woman who held half the continent in fear and awe.
Yet tonight she was restless.
Her heart had been tight since the morning, an intuition that refused to leave her chest. No matter how she buried herself in documents, disciples' petitions, or the endless strategies of Spirit Hall, she felt an invisible hand tugging her toward the outside world.
When she finally gave in, she disguised herself in a black cloak and left the palace alone. She didn't know why. She didn't know where she was going. But she followed the pull.
It led her… to an abandoned chapel at the edge of Spirit City.
The chapel was ancient, a ruin left from the time before her reign. The roof had collapsed, and the altar was cracked. The faithful no longer prayed there, and weeds had conquered the stone steps.
Yet beneath the broken ceiling, beneath the storm's tears, a faint sound reached her ears.
A cry.
It was weak, fragile, almost drowned by the rain—but it was there.
Bibi Dong's eyes sharpened. She followed the sound, her steps crunching against the wet floor until she saw him.
A child.
Soaked in the rain, shivering, wrapped in nothing but torn cloth. His face was pale, but his eyes…
His eyes were not ordinary.
They were calm. Too calm.
Even as thunder roared above, the boy looked up at her with an expression that was not fear, not desperation, but something steady. Like the surface of a lake.
Bibi Dong froze.
She had seen countless children—orphans, disciples, slaves. Some wept, some clung to life like broken reeds. But this one… he was quiet.
"What are you doing here?" her voice slipped out, soft, almost against her will.
The boy tilted his head. He was too young, perhaps five or six, yet he answered slowly, clearly:
"I was left here."
His voice was hoarse, but controlled. No tears. No sobbing.
Left here.
Bibi Dong's gaze deepened. She noticed it now—the faint shimmer around him. Something in his body pulsed beneath the skin, a rhythm unlike that of ordinary children. A pearl-like light flickered faintly near his chest, and when the storm flared, for a moment, she swore she felt the pressure of something ancient—something draconic—within him.
Her breath caught.
This child…
He was not ordinary.
Yet what struck her more was not the aura, nor the hidden power—it was his composure. At that age, abandoned, any other child would break. But he sat there quietly, as though waiting.
Bibi Dong saw herself.
Long ago, when she was cast into despair, betrayed by fate, she too had sat in silence. But unlike her, this child's silence was not hollow. It was steady. Proud, even.
Something stirred in her chest, something she thought long dead.
Without thinking further, she stepped forward, kneeling in front of him. Her hand brushed aside his wet hair, revealing his face clearly.
Soft features, delicate as jade. His hair, though plastered by rain, held a faint golden-brown sheen. But more striking were his eyes: not wide and childish, but narrow, sharp, like those of someone who had already seen too much.
"What is your name?" she asked quietly.
The boy blinked once. "Oscar."
A simple name. But the way he said it carried weight.
Bibi Dong's fingers curled slightly. Oscar.
She could feel it—the faint thrum of destiny around him. She had studied countless martial spirits, observed countless geniuses. But never had she felt a child's presence resonate with her intuition like this.
And then, against all reason, against all cold logic, she made her choice.
"From today onward," she whispered, her voice cutting through the storm, "you are not abandoned. You are my son."
Oscar's eyes widened for the first time. His calm surface rippled.
"Your… son?" he asked softly.
"Yes."
Bibi Dong stood, drawing the child into her arms. The rain struck her cloak, but she didn't care. Her embrace was firm, protective, as though shielding him from the whole world.
"I am Bibi Dong. Supreme Pontiff of Spirit Hall. From this day, you will live as my adopted son. No one will touch you. No one will cast you aside again."
Her words were not loud, but they carried an authority that could not be denied. Even the storm seemed to hush for a moment.
Oscar's small hands hesitated, then slowly grasped her robes.
He didn't cry. He didn't smile. But for the first time, the calmness in his eyes softened.
"…Mother."
The single word pierced through Bibi Dong's heart like light breaking into a dark cave.
Her arms tightened around him. For so long, she had buried her tenderness beneath layers of hatred and ambition. But tonight, holding this child, she felt it stir again.
Perhaps fate had not completely abandoned her.
Perhaps this boy was her chance at redemption—or at least, at warmth.
The storm raged on outside, but inside that broken chapel, a bond was forged.
The bond of mother and son.
The next morning, Spirit Hall was shaken.
When the Supreme Pontiff returned to the palace, she did not come alone. She carried a child in her arms, his face serene, his small figure wrapped in a fresh robe embroidered with the sigil of Spirit Hall.
The high-ranking elders stared in silence as Bibi Dong's voice rang across the grand hall:
"This is my adopted son, Oscar. From today, he will be raised within the Supreme Pontiff Palace. His status is second only to mine."
Shock rippled like waves.
A son? Bibi Dong had taken a son?
But no one dared to question her directly. Not when her gaze was that sharp, not when her tone left no room for argument.
Yet whispers spread through the palace like wildfire.
Who was this child? Where had he come from? Why him, of all the orphans scattered across the continent?
Some scoffed. Some grew wary. Some grew envious.
But Oscar himself remained calm. He walked beside Bibi Dong with a straight back, his small steps steady, as if none of the stares or murmurs touched him.
From the first day, his composure silenced many doubts.
And though he was only a child, those who met his eyes felt an unsettling steadiness within them. As though this boy was not someone to be underestimated.
That night, within her private chambers, Bibi Dong sat with Oscar.
She poured him warm soup, watched him eat slowly, and then finally asked, "Oscar, why were you left in that chapel?"
The boy paused. He put the spoon down carefully before answering.
"I don't know." His voice was quiet, but clear. "But… I wasn't sad."
Bibi Dong raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
Oscar's gaze met hers. Calm. Firm.
"Because I knew someone would come for me."
Her chest tightened. For the second time that day, she was shaken by him.
"…You trust fate that much?" she asked.
The boy shook his head.
"Not fate. Myself."
Bibi Dong was silent for a long time.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. A low, soft laugh, free of mockery.
"You are strange, Oscar."
The boy tilted his head. "Is that bad?"
"No," she said firmly, brushing his hair with her fingers. "It's perfect."
Her voice carried both pride and affection.
And so, beneath the golden glow of the palace lamps, the abandoned child of the chapel became the adopted son of Spirit Hall's Supreme Pontiff.
His destiny had begun.
The Balance System, sleeping deep within his soul, stirred faintly, as if acknowledging this turning point.
[System initialization…]
But that was a story for another day.