Kaelen opened his eyes to light that stabbed like knives. The thatched roof above blurred into shifting patches of shadow. His first instinct was to raise an arm to shield himself, but the limb only twitched, trembling uselessly. His fingers curled in on themselves, soft and clumsy, as if they no longer belonged to him.
Damn it… The thought came sharp, adult, deliberate. I can think clearly. I know who I am. But this body… this isn't mine. It's weak, unfinished.
A sudden sound cracked the air: the rough bray of animals, the chatter of women outside, the rhythm of an axe striking wood. All of it pressed into his head at once, unfiltered, unbearable. His tiny chest heaved, and his first instinct was to cry. He resisted, clenching his gums, but the body betrayed him. A helpless wail spilled out of his mouth, high-pitched and pitiful.
Soft hands lifted him, warm against his skin. The scent of smoke and sweat lingered faintly on the woman who carried him. Her voice was gentle, though he could not understand all the words. They tumbled into his ears like waves:
"Quiet, little one. Hush, Kaelen. Mama's here."
Kaelen. The name anchored him, pulled him out of the spiral of panic. They had given him a name. He clung to it as if it were rope in a storm.
But even as he tried to calm, humiliation coiled inside him. On Earth he had walked streets alone, bought food with his own hands, cursed at screens and deadlines. Here, he could not even control when he pissed himself.
And yet—beneath all that shame, something else stirred. A faint warmth glowed in his chest, spreading in slow waves through his veins. It wasn't blood. It wasn't breath. It was something different, something alien. The air around him felt thicker than air should, almost tangible. And his body… his body drank it in without command.
This… this is cultivation?
The idea bloomed in his mind unbidden. He remembered novels he had read, stories about qi and spirit energy, but he had never believed them more than fantasy. Now, each time he drifted toward sleep, he felt his flesh harden ever so slightly, his bones tingling as though washed in unseen fire.
The baby's body was a prison, but also a furnace. And the furnace burned even when he did nothing at all.
---
Days passed, or weeks—time slipped without measure. Kaelen learned to listen, even when he could not speak.
When the villagers gathered around the cooking fire, he lay in his mother's lap, feigning sleep, straining to catch fragments of conversation.
"They say the cultivator from Highpeak shattered a whole hill in anger…" one man muttered, awe and fear mixing in his tone.
"That's nonsense," another scoffed. "No one in the valley has that kind of power. At most, the city sects. Don't go filling the boy's head with stories."
"But it's true!" insisted a woman, her voice sharp. "My cousin's husband saw the smoke himself. They say destruction and creation walk hand in hand—one swing to split the stone, another to raise walls higher than mountains."
The words were crude, unpolished, yet they settled in Kaelen's mind like seeds. Destruction. Creation. Power not as two things, but one.
He wanted to ask questions, to demand details, but his tongue betrayed him. When he tried, only bubbles of spit escaped his lips. Laughter answered him, affectionate but unknowing.
If I had this body on Earth, they'd put me in a hospital, he thought bitterly. Here, I'm just another newborn. They don't know I'm listening. They don't know I understand.
At night, when the hut grew quiet, Kaelen tested himself. He focused inward, searching for that warmth. He could not guide it—it flowed where it wished—but he could feel it, gathering like mist in his chest, seeping into muscle and marrow. Each breath seemed fuller than the last, though his lungs were small.
Sometimes he dreamed. In the dreams, the world was split in two: one half burning, tearing, collapsing in thunderous ruin; the other half blooming, mending, giving shape to forests and rivers. Both halves clashed, and from their clash poured the same golden-white radiance that now lived inside him.
He always woke with a start, heart pounding, mouth too small to scream.
---
The helplessness gnawed at him. His adult mind demanded control, but his infant body denied him at every turn.
Once, he tried to roll over on the straw mat. His plan was simple: shift his weight, turn his shoulder, command his body the way he once had. In his head, the movement was perfect, clean. In reality, his limbs jerked without rhythm, and he ended up flat on his face, smothered in straw.
Panic surged. He couldn't breathe. His little chest struggled, mouth filling with the taste of dust. He flailed, powerless.
Strong hands swept him up before the darkness closed in. His father, broad-shouldered, with calloused palms and a stern face, lifted him effortlessly. "Foolish boy," the man muttered, not unkindly. "Too eager already."
Kaelen gasped, chest heaving. Humiliation burned hotter than fear. I can think like a man, but I can't even crawl like a child.
His father's eyes softened. "He'll grow strong," the man told his mother. "I feel it. His spirit is restless."
Restless. Yes. That was one word for it.
---
Seasons shifted outside. Kaelen could not count them, but he felt the world change in subtle ways: the bite of cold air that made him cry harder, the heavy heat that plastered sweat to his skin, the rains that drummed like war against the thatch.
With each cycle, his awareness deepened. His body remained small, fragile, but the warmth in his chest grew denser. Sometimes he wondered if the others could feel it when they held him. But no one seemed to notice.
Only once did he catch a flicker of suspicion. His grandmother, old and wrinkled as the hills, watched him as he lay still, eyes open far too alert for a babe.
"He listens," she whispered. "This one listens too much."
His mother laughed. "All babies listen."
But Kaelen saw the way the old woman's eyes narrowed, the way her fingers brushed the beads at her wrist. She, at least, felt something different.
---
One evening, as the sun bled red across the horizon, Kaelen's father spoke again of power. He spoke not to Kaelen, but to a neighbor, his voice low with awe.
"They say those who master both destruction and creation can change the fate of whole clans. One stroke of the hand to kill a man, another to birth a city. But that's for sects, for lords. For us, we only pray our children grow strong enough to survive the harvest."
Kaelen lay cradled in his mother's arms, listening. His tiny fist clenched unconsciously.
Survive. That was the word that mattered. Not glory, not destiny. Just survival.
On Earth, survival had meant food, rent, avoiding accidents. Here, it meant growing strong enough that no one could crush him, strong enough to live in a world where hills could be shattered and rebuilt at whim.
His body was small. His voice was trapped. His life was fragile. But inside him burned a furnace that would not stop feeding.
And Kaelen knew, with the clarity only an adult could have inside a child's frame: he would use it. He had no choice.
---
That night, as he drifted into sleep, the warmth in his chest pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Each throb carried both ruin and renewal, destruction and creation. The cradle rocked gently, but Kaelen's mind was already far beyond the wooden walls.
This world was cruel. He would learn its cruelty.
And when his body finally caught up with his spirit, he would no longer be helpless.