Lin Yan rarely cried.
Not as an infant. Not as a child.
When hunger came, he endured it in silence until someone noticed. When fever burned through his small body, he did not wail or thrash. He simply lay still, eyes half-open, breathing shallow but controlled. The midwife once remarked that he looked less like a sick child and more like an old man waiting out a storm.
His mother laughed nervously at the comment.
Children were different, she told herself. Saint-grade talents often were.
As Lin Yan grew, the stillness remained.
He did not cling to his parents. He did not seek approval. When praised, he nodded. When scolded, he listened. There was no resentment in his eyes, nor gratitude—only a quiet acknowledgment, as if everything said to him was already expected.
By the age of four, servants had learned not to chatter around him.
He watched too closely.
It was not the curious gaze of a child, nor the vacant stare of boredom. Lin Yan observed the way people moved, how their expressions changed when elders entered a room, how voices softened or sharpened depending on who was listening. He never asked questions about it.
He remembered.
If a servant spilled water once, it was an accident. If it happened twice, Lin Yan no longer accepted tea from that hand. The servants noticed eventually, unsettled by the calm certainty of it.
"He's sharp," someone whispered once.
"No," another replied after watching the boy walk past without looking at them. "He's… cold."
What unsettled people more was his face.
Lin Yan was handsome—not brightly, not charmingly, but in a way that felt out of place. His features were balanced to an uncomfortable degree, his eyes dark and deep-set, his expression permanently neutral. Even smiling, he looked distant, as though the act was something learned rather than felt.
Strangers paused when they saw him.
Not in admiration. In hesitation.
At five, he began cultivation lessons.
The basic breathing method was taught in the same way it had been for generations. Sit straight. Calm the heart. Feel the warmth circulate. Most children struggled with the stillness. Their thoughts wandered. Their bodies fidgeted.
Lin Yan's mind did neither.
From the first session, he followed the technique exactly. His breathing was shallow but precise, each cycle identical to the last. The supervising elder adjusted his posture once, then never again.
"What are you thinking about?" the elder asked on the third day.
"Nothing," Lin Yan replied.
The elder chuckled. "That's impossible."
Lin Yan said nothing more.
By six, minor accidents began to happen around him.
A boy who mocked him during lessons slipped on wet stone the next day and fractured his wrist. A cousin who hid Lin Yan's book fell ill shortly after, bedridden for weeks. No one connected these events to Lin Yan directly—they were coincidences, nothing more.
Yet those who wronged him tended to regret it.
Lin Yan never retaliated openly. He did not raise his voice. He did not strike back. He simply remembered, withdrew, and waited. When consequences came, he observed them without satisfaction or surprise.
When asked why he no longer played with other children, he answered calmly:
"They're inefficient."
The adults laughed, uneasy but indulgent. Children said strange things.
At seven, he entered Body Tempering.
The pain was real. Muscles tore microscopically. Bones ached. Sweat soaked through his clothes until they clung to his skin. Many children cried during their first cycles.
Lin Yan did not.
He endured each session without sound, eyes open, breathing controlled. When it ended, he bowed, cleaned himself, and returned the next day as if nothing had happened.
An instructor once stopped him mid-session.
"You can rest," the man said. "Pain like this isn't necessary yet."
Lin Yan looked up, gaze steady.
"Stopping wastes time," he replied.
The instructor frowned but did not argue.
As years passed, his peers began to avoid him—not out of fear exactly, but discomfort. Lin Yan did not belong to their small joys or petty frustrations. He neither competed nor bonded. He existed alongside them, separate and untouched.
At night, while the household slept, Lin Yan often sat alone in the courtyard.
He did not meditate for enlightenment.
He did not dream of glory.
He simply sat.
Watching the shadows shift.
Listening to the quiet breathing of the world.
If he felt loneliness, it never showed.
If he felt desire, it never surfaced.
By the time he turned ten, Lin Yan's progress was recorded as normal for a Saint-grade talent. His body was refined, his movements efficient, his presence… subdued.
In the family records, there was no mention of his temperament.
Only a short note beside his name:
"Stable. Disciplined. No abnormalities observed."
The Lin family slept peacefully under that conclusion.
And Lin Yan remained awake.