Seasons turned in Li Village, each carrying its own scars and its own healing. The charred ruins of homes were rebuilt with trembling but determined hands. Smoke no longer stained the sky, though the memory of blood still clung to the soil like an invisible wound.
In that fragile peace, Li Wei grew.
At three years old, he was no ordinary child. His laughter carried strangely far, echoing like the clear ring of jade struck by a master's hand. When he cried, the air seemed to thicken, and even animals stirred uneasily. Some villagers avoided his gaze, whispering behind their sleeves. Others, especially the widows and mothers who had seen him glow under the star, treated him with reverence.
It was said that when he toddled through the fields, flowers bent toward him as if seeking his touch. Chickens and dogs, normally aggressive toward strangers, quieted in his presence. Even the village ox, stubborn and wild, allowed the boy to climb onto its back without complaint.
Madam Chen worked tirelessly, her hands rough with labor. Her husband had never returned from the night of fire one of the nameless dead buried beneath scorched earth. She bore her grief silently, pouring all her strength into her son. Every night she whispered to him, "You must rise higher than me, Wei. Higher than this village. The world is waiting for you."
Old Man Zhao, though weakened, lived on. He took quiet interest in the boy. Though he never openly declared himself a teacher, he began speaking to Li Wei in strange riddles, guiding him through the simplest lessons of life.
"Do you see the stream?" he asked one morning, sitting with the child by the water. "The stream does not fight the stone. It bends, flows, and yet… in time, it carves through mountains."
Li Wei, though still small, seemed to listen with unusual intensity. His dark eyes reflected the water as though he already understood.
Sometimes, when Zhao spoke of qi, the boy's breath would unconsciously synchronize with the rhythm of the wind, as though the heavens themselves adjusted to him. Zhao would feel a ripple, faint but undeniable, as if the child drew from the same current that ran through stars and rivers alike.
Rumors grew once more. Some called him a reincarnated sage, others a cursed star-child. The village divided between worship and wariness, but all agreed on one thing: he was not ordinary.
At five years old, Li Wei displayed an even stranger gift. When other children scraped their knees, their wounds festered. When he fell, the bruises faded within a day, and small cuts sealed without a scar.
The elders grew restless. Some whispered that such unnatural signs would draw danger, that bandits or worse cultivators from distant sects might one day descend upon them to seize the boy.
Their fear was not baseless. Far beyond Li Village, in mountains veiled with mist, sect masters exchanged glances when traveling traders repeated the tale of the "Star Child." Ancient scrolls were consulted, omens re-read, and some muttered that a new era of turbulence had already begun.
Back in the village, Zhao's teachings grew firmer. He never forced cultivation upon the boy, but he nurtured his spirit.
"Power is a burden," Zhao said one evening, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "Do not chase it for vanity. Chase it because you must carry others when they can no longer stand."
Li Wei nodded seriously, though still young.
That night, Madam Chen overheard them and wept quietly. She feared the path ahead but knew the boy could not remain in the shelter of their small world forever. The heavens would not allow it.
By his sixth year, Li Wei's fame had stretched beyond neighboring villages. Wandering scholars came, pretending to sell wares but staying long to observe him. A Taoist priest lingered for three nights, watching the boy play beneath the moon before leaving without a word. Each visitor added fuel to the growing legend.
For the villagers, this attention was a double-edged sword. Pride swelled in their hearts, yet fear shadowed it. They knew too well that power, once noticed, drew envy and violence.
Madam Chen began to dream uneasy dreams. In them, she saw her son standing alone on high mountains, surrounded by fire and lightning. She woke trembling, clutching him to her chest.
Zhao noticed her unease. "Do not fear the path," he said gently. "Fear only that he walks it unprepared."
So he began, in small ways, to prepare the boy. He taught him patience by having him balance stones on his palms for hours. He taught him discipline by asking him to rise before dawn to fetch water, even when frost bit his small hands. And he taught him courage by sending him alone into the forest to listen to the silence of trees.
Li Wei never complained. His young body ached, but his spirit only grew brighter. The villagers watched in awe as the boy who should have been frail became steadier, stronger, and calmer than any child his age.
One evening, as he gazed at the horizon, Zhao whispered to himself, "The heavens chose well… but at what price?"
For though the boy was loved, he was also watched. Far away, in courts of power and halls of cultivation, whispers of the Star Child reached ears both kind and cruel. Some dreamed of guiding him. Others dreamed of using him. And still others dreamed only of ending him before his rise could begin.
"For now, he was only a child in a small village, but the heavens had already marked him. His destiny was a river that could not be dammed, only diverted, only delayed."
On some nights, when the wind was restless, Madam Chen would awaken to find her son standing quietly at the window, his eyes fixed on the stars. He was too young to speak of what he saw, yet in his silence there was gravity, as though the universe whispered to him alone. The villagers called it strange, but Old Man Zhao knew better this was not strangeness. It was awakening.