Morning light spilled over Millstone City, warm and soft, gilding the straw roofs and dusty streets with a gentle glow. The city was small—barely more than five hundred homes—yet it pulsed with life each dawn.
Vendors shouted in the streets.
Children ran between houses.
Merchants set up stalls with sleepy faces.
And in the eastern corner of the city stood a modest courtyard house with a wooden sign:
Tianhai's Daily Goods Shop
The characters were simple, the brushstrokes uneven—Tianhai had deliberately written them with the clumsy hand of a mortal, hiding his past behind the sloppy strokes.
Inside the courtyard, two toddlers sat under a peach tree.
Wuya, at three years old, was quiet. Too quiet. He sat cross-legged with a fallen peach blossom in his hand, turning it slowly, studying its shape and veins with fascination no child his age should have possessed.
Beside him, Xueyi—his cousin by blood, sister by heart—played with a wooden rabbit carved by Tianhai. She made soft humming sounds as she bounced the toy, pausing every few moments to peek at Wuya as if making sure he was still there.
She did that often.
Her Moonveil Seal glowed faintly when Wuya was close, a soft shimmer only Tianhai could sense.
Under the morning sun, Tianhai swept the courtyard, watching the children from the corner of his eye.
"Wuya," Tianhai said gently, "flowers aren't meant for meditation."
The three-year-old looked up, unblinking.
"It's not meditating, Father," Wuya answered softly. "The flower is… breathing."
Tianhai's hand froze on the broom.
He exhaled slowly.
He had planned to teach Wuya to walk, to speak, to behave like a normal child. He had not planned for Wuya to awaken early Dao sensitivity before learning to read.
"Breathing, you say?" Tianhai approached him.
Wuya nodded.
"When I hold it… something moves inside it."
Tianhai crouched down. "What kind of something?"
The boy tilted his head.
"A soft pulse. Like… the world telling me a small secret."
Tianhai's heart tightened.
Aotian had said Wuya would grow slowly, naturally, hidden from heaven.
But this child was not slow.
Not ordinary.
Not silent.
His senses were opening too early.
Xueyi crawled closer, grabbing Wuya's sleeve.
"It's pretty. Don't eat it, Wuya."
He blinked at her, as if that had never crossed his mind.
Tianhai sighed in relief.
Children.
Still children.
But as Tianhai stood, he felt something else—a faint, almost invisible ripple of spiritual attention brushing the edge of the city.
Another watcher.
Not heaven.
Not immortals.
Something older.
Tianhai's eyes narrowed for a heartbeat.
Then he smiled gently to the children.
"Come. Breakfast."
The ripple faded.
He had shielded the city in an instant.
---
Age 4 — A Child Who Listens to Wind
Millstone City was loud during the day, but quiet at dawn. Tianhai sat with a wooden cup of tea on the porch, watching Wuya play alone.
No—play wasn't the right word.
Wuya had a habit.
One that worried Tianhai deeply.
Each morning before sunrise, the child sat beneath the peach tree, facing east, his small back straight, eyes half-lidded, breathing slowly.
Listening.
"Uncle Tianhai," Xueyi asked one morning, tugging his sleeve, "why does Wuya wake before the chickens?"
Tianhai smiled.
"He's listening to the world waking up."
"Listening to what?"
Tianhai paused.
"What do you hear, Xueyi?"
The little girl thought seriously.
"Wind. Birds. Water."
"Then Wuya also hears wind, birds, and water."
Xueyi puffed her cheeks.
"Then why does he look like he's thinking too hard?"
Tianhai chuckled.
Because Wuya wasn't just hearing wind.
He was sensing movement, direction, rhythm—the beginnings of Wind Intent before even forming a single thread of Qi.
Tianhai walked to the boy.
"What are you thinking about?"
Wuya didn't open his eyes.
"The wind… has footsteps."
Tianhai froze.
Wuya continued.
"It walks softly when the sun rises. It runs when the birds fly. It gets nervous when clouds come."
Tianhai took a long, steady breath.
Wind Intent—Ray Stage.
At four years old.
Monstrous.
Terrifying.
Beautiful.
He placed his hand gently on Wuya's hair.
"You feel too much, little one."
Wuya blinked, turning his head.
"Is it wrong?"
"No," Tianhai whispered.
"But you must not speak of it outside."
Wuya nodded obediently.
"I won't."
Xueyi hugged him from behind, almost knocking him over.
"He's just thinking too much," she said proudly.
"My Wuya is smart!"
Tianhai almost choked on air.
He coughed lightly.
"Don't go outside town alone," he said.
"The world is bigger than you think."
Wuya nodded again.
But Tianhai could tell—
The child already knew that.
---
Age 6 — The First Incident
The courtyard grew busier each year.
Wuya helped sweep the yard.
Xueyi helped wipe the tables.
Tianhai managed the shop, greeting customers with a calm smile.
Life was peaceful.
Or it should have been.
Then came the day Wuya turned six.
Tianhai found him sitting under the peach tree again—this time staring at a smooth river stone. Not unusual. Wuya liked collecting stones, leaves, and feathers.
But this time was different.
Wuya held the stone with two hands, brows knitted.
Xueyi stood beside him, watching curiously.
"Wuya?" Tianhai asked.
The boy didn't look up.
"This stone… is sad."
Tianhai stiffened.
"…Sad?"
Wuya nodded slowly.
"Something hit it. Long ago. It broke a little inside. But it kept its shape."
Tianhai walked over, crouched, and touched the stone.
He felt nothing.
But Wuya?
He was sensing Earth Intent, albeit faint, but unmistakable.
Xueyi blinked at Wuya.
"How can a rock be sad?"
Wuya handed it to her.
"Can't you feel it?"
She closed her eyes.
The Moonveil Seal faintly glowed on her chest.
Her eyes slowly widened.
"…It does feel… lonely."
Tianhai nearly dropped the broom in shock.
Both children were awakening early sensitivities.
Both were touching the faintest threads of the world.
Silently.
Naturally.
Without guidance.
He suppressed a shiver.
No one in the city could know.
No one could even suspect.
Even a small rumor could draw attention from wandering cultivators.
Tianhai placed a hand on each child's shoulder.
"You two are special," he said quietly.
"But special children must be careful."
Wuya nodded.
Xueyi nodded after seeing him nod.
"Come inside," Tianhai said.
"Breakfast is waiting."
---
Age 7 — When Words Moved Wind
The seventh year surprised Tianhai more than any before it.
It happened during spring.
Wuya and Xueyi played in the courtyard. The peach blossoms were falling like pink rain, and Tianhai sat nearby with tea.
Xueyi sneezed.
The blossoms stuck to her hair.
"Wuya, help," she complained.
He laughed softly.
"The wind likes you."
"No it doesn't!"
"It does."
"It DOESN'T!"
"It's playing with you."
Xueyi stomped her foot and shouted:
"STOP!"
The wind stopped.
The peach blossoms froze in mid-air…
and then gently dropped straight down.
Wuya stared.
Xueyi blinked.
Tianhai spilled his tea.
Xueyi gasped.
"Wuya! I'm magic!"
Wuya shook his head.
"The wind listens to you."
"Because it likes me?"
Wuya nodded.
She puffed her chest proudly.
Tianhai swallowed hard.
Her Moonveil Seal had interacted with the wind itself.
Not intent.
Not cultivation.
A natural resonance.
But Wuya looked even more dangerous.
He stared at Xueyi's outstretched hand, eyes narrowing.
He whispered:
"It's not that it listens…"
Tianhai tensed.
Wuya continued softly.
"It respects you."
Tianhai froze.
Respect?
Wind?
Toward a child?
No.
Toward a seal.
Toward her destiny.
He forced a gentle smile.
"Xueyi, don't shout commands at nature. You'll scare it."
She nodded and hugged Wuya's arm.
"I'll only shout at him then."
Wuya sighed.
Tianhai exhaled in relief.
Children remained children.
Barely.
---
Age 8 — The Sky Watches Again
At eight years old, Wuya was calm, observant, frighteningly perceptive. Xueyi was lively, playful, and fiercely protective of him.
Their days were filled with warm meals, chores, laughter, and Tianhai's guidance.
But peace could not last forever.
One twilight, Tianhai sat alone on the rooftop, watching the fading sun. Below, the children slept in the next room, breathing softly.
Tianhai's suppressed cultivation flickered—
just barely—
as he sensed something in the heavens.
A ripple.
A breath.
A shadow of ancient curiosity.
An old transcendent
was looking toward the mortal world.
Not heaven.
Someone else.
Someone who felt the faint pulse of a forbidden birth eight years ago… and had not forgotten.
Tianhai tightened his grip on the wooden railing.
"Not today," he whispered.
He raised one finger.
A soft veil of mortal mist drifted over the city.
The ripple vanished.
The watcher turned away.
Peace returned.
Tianhai sat there until the moon was high.
He did not sleep.
He watched the children through the thin walls, their silhouettes faint in the candlelight.
He whispered softly:
"Sixteen more years… no matter what happens, I'll protect them."
Inside, Wuya stirred.
His eyes opened for a moment.
Dark.
Deep.
Quiet.
As if he heard a call no mortal could hear.
Then he closed them again.
---
And So the Years Continue
Wuya was growing.
Not in realm—
but in awareness.
He noticed things others couldn't.
He felt movements others missed.
He recognized patterns others ignored.
The world whispered to him.
And he listened.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Calmly.
Xueyi grew alongside him—
sunlight where he was moonlight,
warmth where he was stillness,
balance where he was depth.
They were inseparable.
Tianhai watched them every day.
Sometimes he felt proud.
Sometimes he felt fear.
Most times he felt both.
But he never told them anything.
Not about Aotian.
Not about their origins.
Not about the heavens.
Not about the ancient watchers.
For now, they were simply—
Two children in a courtyard.
Under a mortal sky.
Unaware of the destiny waiting to awaken within them.
Unaware of the system sleeping deep inside Wuya.
Unaware of the storm building beyond the horizon.
But soon.
At sixteen.
Everything would begin.