Lin Xiao's childhood was a study in silent contrast. Officially, she was the Third Young Mistress, a ghost in the castle's lavish halls. While her half-brothers, Yan Kang and Yan Jun, received tutors, sparred with wooden swords in the courtyard under their father's occasional, critical eye, and dined at the high table, Lin Xiao was kept at the periphery.
She inherited her mother's hidden beauty, which only grew more pronounced as she shed the roundness of infancy. Her hair was a cascade of deep black, her skin pale as moonlight. But it was her eyes that marked her—that clear, intelligent grey, always watching, always assessing. She learned the geography of the castle not through play, but through evasion: which corridors were empty at which hours, which servants would offer a sympathetic glance (quickly hidden), and which would coldly report her presence to Lady Wen.
Her world was her mother's secluded wing of the castle, a slightly warmer, softer place filled with the scent of ink, dried flowers, and the faint melody of Li Hua's zither. It was here, on Lin Xiao's fifth birthday—a day unmarked by any celebration in the main hall—that the secret training began.
"Come, Xiao," Li Hua said softly, leading her to the center of their private sitting room. She had moved the low table and cushions aside. "Today, I will show you something important. It is a game, but you must never play it where others can see. Do you understand?"
Lin Xiao, serious beyond her years, nodded. Her grey eyes were fixed on her mother's face, sensing the gravity beneath the gentle tone.
"Good." Li Hua took a deep, slow breath, her posture subtly shifting. Her shoulders relaxed, her spine straightened as if a string were pulling her crown upward. "This is called *'Rooting the Mountain.'* It is not about being hard, but about being… connected. Like a tree."
She placed her feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. "Feel the floor beneath you. Imagine roots growing from your feet, deep into the stone of the mountain. You are not standing *on* the ground; you are part of it."
Lin Xiao mimicked the stance, her small face scrunched in concentration. It felt odd, quiet.
"Now," Li Hua whispered, moving behind her. She placed gentle hands on Lin Xiao's shoulders and diaphragm. "Breathe. Not here," she tapped Lin Xiao's chest, "but here." She pressed lightly on her lower abdomen. "Slowly. Fill this place like a deep, quiet pool."
The lesson was simple: a stance, a breathing pattern. It was the most foundational of foundations, devoid of any martial application. To any watching elder, it would have been laughable. But for an hour each day, in the locked privacy of their chambers, Li Hua taught her daughter. *'Flowing Water Stance,'* for balance and yielding. *'Morning Sun Breathing,'* to cultivate calm and focus. She used games—balancing a scroll on her head while holding the stance, trying to breathe so slowly she wouldn't disturb a feather held under her nose.
Lin Xiao was a prodigy not of brute force, but of silent absorption. Her young body, unburdened by the arrogance of formal training, took to the foundational principles with eerie naturalness. Her 'Rooting the Mountain' stance, after a few months, became unnervingly solid for a child. Her breathing grew deep and rhythmic, lending a preternatural calm to her usual watchfulness.
One afternoon, after a particularly long session of 'Flowing Water' steps—a delicate, gliding movement—Li Hua collapsed onto a cushion, not from fatigue, but from emotion. Lin Xiao, not yet six, immediately stopped and knelt beside her, her small hand patting her mother's arm.
"Mama? Did I do it wrong?"
Li Hua pulled her into a tight hug, shaking her head. "No, my heart. You did it perfectly." She leaned back, cupping her daughter's face, her own eyes shining. "You have a gift, Xiao. A spirit that listens to the world. Never let this place," she glanced at the cold stone walls, "teach you not to listen."
These were the shadows of Lin Xiao's childhood: the visible neglect, the cold glances from her father, the spoiled cruelty of Yan Kang during rare, uncomfortable family meals. And hidden beneath it, the warm, secret rhythm of her mother's love, expressed not just in lullabies, but in stolen lessons of balance, breath, and a resilience that grew silently, like a lotus root in murky water.
Meanwhile, Yan Mo watched his sons train, his dissatisfaction a constant hum. And late at night, in the absolute secrecy of a vault beneath his study, he would unroll a stolen scroll. Its parchment was faintly luminous, and on it, diagrams not of swords or fists, but of intricate Qi pathways that culminated in a single, mesmerizing image: a flawless, dancing *flame the color of a summer sky*—the Azure Soulflame. His eyes burned not with its light, but with the reflected ambition of a thief who now dreamed of forging a living weapon.