The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and wet earth from the nearby forest. Sunlight filtered through the mist, falling in soft beams that painted the cabin's wooden floors in gold and silver. For Liang Yu, each breath was a new sensation, each sound and movement alive with purpose. He had awoken in this body only hours ago—or perhaps it was days, though time seemed different here—and already the weight of responsibility pressed upon him.
The children stirred before dawn, their small movements restless and insistent. Xiao An, with dark eyes alert and observant, rose quietly, attempting to be helpful. Xiao Wei whimpered softly, tugging at Liang Yu's sleeve for comfort. Liang Yu knelt beside them, fingers brushing the soft hair of the younger child, smiling despite the nervous flutter in his chest. The children's trust, fragile as spun glass, settled lightly on his shoulders, and he felt a strange warmth in return.
"Good morning," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. The words sounded strange to him, intimate and unfamiliar. On Earth, he had greeted no one but empty streets and echoes. Here, these words carried weight; they carried hope. Xiao An tilted their head, eyes reflecting both skepticism and curiosity, while Xiao Wei clung closer, comforted by his presence.
"You will help with breakfast," Feng Lian's voice called from the door, calm and commanding. Liang Yu straightened, bowing his head slightly. "Yes," he replied, voice steadying despite the nervous pulse in his chest. He had learned obedience well, yet obedience now carried a purpose deeper than mere survival. It carried care. Love. Belonging.
The cabin was simple, yet it held the faint elegance of careful provision. Grains and dried herbs were stacked neatly in baskets, firewood cut and arranged in perfect symmetry, the hearth ready for flames. Liang Yu moved cautiously, gathering small bundles of kindling, checking the water stored in clay jars, his mind focused on each step. The children followed, eager but inexperienced, their small hands fumbling with utensils and wooden bowls.
"You have to be gentle," he said, guiding Xiao An's hands as they prepared simple porridge. "The water is hot, and the bowls will break if you're not careful." His voice, soft and patient, carried an authority that was not command but guidance. Xiao An nodded, eyes widening at the care in his tone, and a tentative trust settled between them like a fragile seed.
Even as he worked, he felt a pulse beneath his hands, subtle and insistent. The wood of the cabin, the small shoots sprouting in the cracks of the floor, even the children themselves seemed to hum in response to him. A fallen leaf near the hearth fluttered upright as if nudged by an unseen hand. He froze briefly, a mixture of awe and confusion surging through him. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps the body's lingering powers. He shook the thought aside, not yet ready to confront the mystery. Feng Lian did not notice—or chose not to.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. The children ate with growing confidence under his careful supervision, and Liang Yu marveled at the simplicity of it all. The smell of porridge, the soft murmur of their conversation, the warmth of the cabin and the mountains beyond—it was a small perfection, a fragile sanctuary carved from life itself. And yet, beneath the surface, the currents of anxiety flowed. He feared mistakes, feared failing the children or disappointing the silent figure who had entrusted their care to him.
"Careful with the fire," Feng Lian said abruptly, his eyes sweeping over the hearth. "You must respect it. The mountain is patient, but it does not forgive carelessness." Liang Yu nodded quickly, fingers tightening slightly on the wooden spoon. Yes, he understood. Responsibility was not abstract; it was tangible, present in every movement, every decision.
Later, he led the children to the small garden patch outside the cabin. The soil was dark and rich, nurtured over time by careful hands. Tiny shoots stretched upward, leaves quivering in the morning light. Liang Yu knelt, guiding Xiao An and Xiao Wei's small fingers to press seeds into the soil, whispering instructions softly.
"Plant them gently," he said, feeling a pulse beneath his palms as if the earth itself acknowledged him. "Life is delicate. You must be patient." As he spoke, the tiny seedlings seemed to lean subtly toward his hands, a faint shimmer of green weaving along the stems. He paused, startled. His powers—wood, growth, healing—were no longer dormant. They had begun to respond to his touch, small, careful, unassuming.
Xiao An glanced at him curiously. "Why do the plants… move?" they asked, voice soft and uncertain.
He hesitated, caught between honesty and caution. "I… I think they are happy to be planted," he murmured, words almost uncertain even to himself. He did not yet understand the full extent of the powers awakening within him, but their subtle manifestation filled him with both wonder and fear.
The morning passed in quiet rhythm. Tasks were completed, mistakes made and corrected, laughter mingling with small scoldings and gentle guidance. Liang Yu felt the weight of care pressing against him constantly, yet it was tempered by an unexpected joy. For the first time, he was needed, not for survival or convenience, but for love, trust, and life itself. The children's laughter and warmth were a tether to reality, grounding him, shaping him, forming a bond he had never thought possible.
Meanwhile, Feng Lian watched silently from the cabin doorway or the edge of the clearing. He said little, yet his presence was a steady force, shaping the day with subtle guidance and unspoken expectation. Occasionally, his eyes lingered a moment too long on Liang Yu—on the gentle precision of his movements, on the ease with which he guided the children, on the way his hands hovered over seedlings, almost unknowingly coaxing life from the soil. Feng Lian did not yet understand the depth of this ability, but curiosity stirred, soft and persistent.
By midday, Liang Yu had discovered a strange rhythm in the household. Feeding, cleaning, tending the children and garden, observing the cabin and surrounding mountains—each task intertwined with subtle lessons in patience, awareness, and connection. He marveled at the small wonders around him: a leaf brushing against his sleeve and glowing faintly, a sprout bending subtly toward his gaze, the children laughing in innocent delight. Each moment carried a pulse, an unseen thread weaving him into this new family.
When Feng Lian returned after a brief inspection of supplies, he spoke directly for the first time that day. "You are learning," he said, voice steady, low, measured. "The children trust you. The house remains in order. You are… adequate." The words were not praise, yet they carried the faintest weight of approval, a recognition that warmed Liang Yu's chest more than he expected.
"Yes," Liang Yu replied, feeling a swell of emotion he could not fully name. Adequate. Responsible. Belonging. For the first time, he felt the fragile roots of something permanent threading through his heart, weaving with the pulse of life around him, with the laughter of Xiao An and Xiao Wei, with the quiet presence of Feng Lian.
Feng Lian's gaze lingered for a moment, then shifted outward, toward the mountains beyond. "Do not grow complacent," he warned, tone steady. "The mountain, the valley, the currents of life here—they will test you. Learn, or be broken."
Liang Yu nodded, inwardly trembling with both resolve and anticipation. He did not yet know the full extent of his powers, the currents threading through the valley, or the dangers that lurked unseen. But he understood one thing: he belonged. He was needed. And in that realization, the pulse of quiet joy, mingled with fear, swelled through him like the first wind through sprouting trees.
Even as the day wore on, subtle incidents revealed the growing power he barely understood. Xiao Wei scraped a knee while running, and without thinking, Liang Yu pressed his hands gently to the wound. The bruise faded slightly, color returning, and the child blinked in amazement. Liang Yu froze, heart hammering. Had he done that? Or had it been instinct, the simple presence of care? Feng Lian did not notice, though he did remark on the child's quick recovery with a subtle raising of an eyebrow.
By nightfall, Liang Yu felt a strange exhaustion, heavy yet satisfying, as though each task had been a seed planted deep within him, roots taking hold in fertile soil. The children slept peacefully, the cabin hummed softly with quiet life, and the twin moons drifted above, silver and violet against the darkening sky. Feng Lian remained awake, silent and watchful, yet there was a faint relaxation in his posture, a small acknowledgment that the day had passed without disaster.
Alone in the quiet, Liang Yu knelt by the small seedlings outside, hands resting lightly on the earth. His pulse thrummed in rhythm with the mountain, the children, the cabin, and the unseen currents of life. He whispered softly, almost to himself: "I will protect them. I will grow with them. I will belong here."
A faint glow shimmered along the leaves beneath his fingers, subtle but undeniable. And in that quiet, he understood something profound: that life, like his powers, was not merely about survival, but about nurturing, care, and connection. The mountain, the children, Feng Lian—all were threads in a tapestry he had only just begun to weave.
And as he rose, brushing dirt from his hands, Feng Lian's gaze met his once more. A quiet understanding passed between them, unspoken but heavy with promise. Liang Yu did not yet know the depth of the man's awareness, nor did Feng Lian know the full scope of the power awakening in the boy before him. Yet in that shared silence, the first real bond had begun to form—tentative, fragile, and yet unbreakable in its potential.