Willow Brook woke the same way it always did—late, loud, and without dignity.
Someone was shouting about chickens again. A dog barked like it was personally offended by the concept of morning. Somewhere near the eastern houses, metal clanged as a pot lost an argument with the ground.
Lin Tianlian listened to it all with half-lidded eyes.
He was five.
Physically.
Mentally, he had long since stopped counting.
He lay on his back atop a rough wooden platform that served as both bed and table depending on the day, staring at the dark beams of the ceiling. The house smelled faintly of dried herbs and old smoke. Familiar. Comforting. Safe, in a way that didn't demand gratitude.
His father was already awake. Tianlian could tell by the rhythm of movement outside—measured steps, the scrape of baskets, the soft muttering of someone reciting ingredient lists from memory.
Herbalist habits.
Lin Jian didn't rush mornings. He believed haste ruined both medicine and people.
Tianlian agreed.
He rolled onto his side and sat up, bare feet touching cool packed earth. No dizziness. No clumsiness. His body had grown into itself early—nothing supernatural, just relentless awareness. He had learned to walk before most children learned to fall properly, not because he was gifted, but because he paid attention.
That had been true in his last life too.
He slipped into a plain tunic, tied the cord with quick fingers, and stepped outside.
The courtyard was small, cluttered with drying racks strung with leaves, roots, and bark. Lin Jian stood near the table, broad-backed, sleeves rolled up, sorting bundles with a care that bordered on reverence.
"You're up early," his father said without turning.
"Late, actually," Tianlian replied. "Sun's already judging us."
Lin Jian snorted. "You're five."
"Temporary condition."
That earned him a sideways look—fond, mildly exasperated, and not at all surprised.
Tianlian had stopped trying to act like a normal child a long time ago. It wasn't worth the effort. His father had accepted this with the quiet resignation of a man who'd lost his wife in childbirth and gained a son who spoke like an old monk with a sense of humor.
"Breakfast after I finish this batch," Lin Jian said.
"I'll fetch water."
"That's Mei's turn."
"I'll go with her."
Lin Jian paused, then nodded. He didn't ask why. He rarely did.
Tianlian stepped out onto the village path, barefoot as usual. Shoes slowed feedback. He liked knowing exactly where the ground dipped, where stones shifted, where mud pretended to be solid.
Willow Brook stretched awake around him—crooked houses, low fences, laundry lines sagging with yesterday's washing. No walls. No guards. No reason for anyone important to pass through.
That anonymity was its greatest defense.
Mei was already at the well when he arrived, dark hair tied back, sleeves rolled neatly, hands steady as she worked the rope. She was a year older than him and somehow carried that fact like a responsibility.
She glanced up when she heard his footsteps.
"You're early."
"You're late," he said. "I was hoping to steal your job."
She rolled her eyes. "You always say that."
"And one day I'll mean it."
The bucket surfaced with a soft splash. Mei lifted it smoothly, set it aside, then paused—just for a fraction of a breath.
Tianlian noticed.
She didn't frown. Didn't tense. Just… hesitated.
Then she continued as if nothing had happened.
"Did you sleep?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Like a normal person?"
"No."
That got a faint smile.
They walked back together, each carrying a bucket. The path wound past fields and low stone markers etched with names no one remembered anymore. Birds flitted between willow branches, careless and loud.
Normal.
Too normal, Tianlian thought distantly.
He watched Mei from the corner of his eye. The way her gaze drifted, unfocused at times. The way she listened to things that weren't being said.
She'd been like that for as long as he could remember.
Mei wasn't fragile. She wasn't timid. She was… attuned.
She didn't know it yet.
Neither did anyone else.
And that was good.
They reached the house. Lin Jian took the water with a nod and disappeared inside.
Mei lingered.
"Do you ever think," she began, then stopped.
"Yes," Tianlian said. "Constantly."
She huffed. "That's not what I meant."
"Then rephrase."
She stared at the drying herbs, fingers fidgeting with her sleeve. "Do you ever think this place feels… smaller than it should?"
He considered the question carefully.
"No," he said at last. "I think it's exactly as small as it wants to be."
She frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It will."
That didn't help her mood.
They parted soon after—Mei heading to help an old woman with sorting grain, Tianlian back to his father's side. He spent the morning grinding roots, listening, watching.
Learning.
He learned how leaves dried differently depending on humidity. How certain insects gathered near specific herbs. How traders from nearby hamlets walked—who dragged their feet, who kept their eyes up.
Most people saw only what mattered to them.
Tianlian saw patterns.
By noon, the village was alive. Children ran. Vendors argued. Someone played a flute badly enough to be impressive.
No cultivators.
No wandering heroes.
No destiny knocking.
Good.
He preferred it that way.
Later, he found Mei by the stream, crouched at the edge, fingers trailing through the water. The current was gentle, clear enough to see smooth stones below.
"You're thinking again," he said.
She startled slightly, then sighed. "I didn't hear you."
"I wasn't loud."
"That's worse."
He crouched beside her. The water reflected the sky cleanly. Too clean.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
She hesitated. "Nothing important."
"Then it's definitely important."
She shot him a look, then relented. "I feel like something's… off. Lately."
"Define off."
"Like the village is holding its breath."
Tianlian watched the stream.
It flowed. It sparkled. It behaved.
"I don't feel danger," she continued. "Just… anticipation."
That was a good word.
He filed it away.
"Mei," he said casually, "if something changed, would you want to know first—or last?"
She blinked. "First, obviously."
He nodded. "Then pay attention. But don't panic."
"You're telling me not to panic?"
"I'm telling you panicking is optional."
She studied his face, searching for a joke. She didn't find one.
"You're weird," she said.
"Efficient."
They sat in silence, listening to water and wind.
Far beyond Willow Brook, beyond roads and towns and sect boundaries no one here could name, the world continued as it always had—vast, indifferent, full of people who thought they mattered.
It didn't know Lin Tianlian yet.
It would.
But not today.
Today, he ground herbs, fetched water, and watched the stream flow as if it hadn't carried secrets longer than memory.
Today, Willow Brook stayed unimportant.
And that, for now, was exactly as he intended.