The words hung in the dim, still air of the room.
Han Li's expression shifted—not all at once, but like a crack slowly spreading across ice. His breath stilled. The warmth that had filled his chest from the selection, the triumph, the future—it all froze.
"What… secret?" he finally whispered.
His mother's eyes were pools of sorrow. "Li'er, you don't know…"
"Don't stop." His voice was thin, strained. "Tell me. Don't worry—I'm not a child anymore. So tell me."
His father's weathered hands clenched on his knees. His mother reached out, trembling, and took Han Li's hands in hers.
"Li'er… you are not our biological child."
The words were not loud. They were not a shout. But they hit Han Li like a bolt of lightning striking the crown of his head—clean, violent, blinding.
For a moment, the world went white and silent.
Then feeling rushed back in a sickening wave.
"Mother," he breathed, a strained, disbelieving laugh escaping him. "Are you… joking with me? How can this be?"
He looked from her tear-streaked face to his father's stoic, pained one. "I'm your own child. Are you saying this so I'll forget you? So I won't lack mind in studying at Master's place?" His voice rose, trembling with hurt. "Don't worry—I won't do such a thing. But don't… don't crack such jokes, Mother. It really isn't a good joke."
His mother's grip tightened. Her voice was soft, but it carried a finality that shattered his last hope. "Li'er… has your mother ever lied to you?"
Han Li stared.
She hadn't. Not once. Not about the last spoon of rice, not about the mending of his clothes, not about the stories she told him when the nights were cold.
"You really are not our own child," she repeated, the words falling like stones. "It is a story from fifteen years ago."
She took a shaky breath, her gaze drifting to the shuttered window, as if looking through the wood and into the past.
"Your father and I had been married for four years. We had no children. We went to temples. We prayed. We offered what little we had. But heaven gave no heed. Finally… we lost hope."
His father's head bowed, the memory a weight on his bent shoulders.
"Before the winter of that year," she continued, her voice dropping to a haunted whisper, "we went into the western forest to search for firewood. We collected a few bundles. The time was already near dusk—we decided to go back home, not to stay in the forest after dark."
Her eyes grew distant, seeing another time.
"It was too cold. A bitter breeze… little snowing… I took a bundle on my head, your father on his shoulder. After a few steps… we heard a voice."
She paused, the memory tightening her face.
"A voice that was our dream to hear… but not at that time. At that time, in those abandoned woods… it made us fearful. Where could such a sound come from? It was… the voice of a child."
Han Li's heart was a trapped bird in his ribs.
"At first, we were nervous. We thought it might be some forest evil, a trick. But then… the cries grew louder. More desperate. We couldn't leave. We went closer, following the sound. It led us to the heart of an old, hollowed tree."
Her voice wavered.
"We went closer. It was clear then—a child's cries. Frightened. Alone. Your father… he reached inside. And he pulled out a child."
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now.
"You were wrapped in white cloth, nearly frozen, nearly dead. But when the cloth fell open…" She looked at Han Li, her expression awed even now. "You looked like you lit the whole dark night. Such was your appearance—like a fairy child. But you were so cold. So still."
Han Li sat paralyzed, his own breathing shallow.
"You had a ring," his father spoke for the first time, his voice gravelly with emotion. He pointed to his own neck. "Hanging here, on a simple cord. We thought… this was something mysterious. Something we should not touch. So we kept it secret. We brought you home. Warmed you. Fed you goat's milk from Old Wen's nanny goat. And from then on… we looked after you. As our own. Until now."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Han Li sat there, breath held—waiting for a truth he wasn't sure he wanted. Outside the window, distant mountains hid cultivation sects, spirit beasts, and ancient ruins—but here, in this small village, destiny was quietly shifting.
His voice, when it came, was broken, small. "Could… could that child be me?"
"Yes, Li'er," his mother whispered. "Yes."
For a long moment, no one moved.
In one breath, his world did not grow—it broke.
His mother stood, her movements slow with remembered grief. "Wait."
She went to the far corner of the room, knelt, and pried up a loose floorboard she had kept hidden for fifteen years. From the dark space beneath, she drew out a small cloth bundle, wrapped in faded blue cloth. She returned, unwrapping it with reverent hands.
Inside lay a simple leather cord. And threaded onto it, a ring.
It was unadorned, made of a metal that was neither silver nor iron, holding a dull sheen in the dim light. It felt old. It felt heavy with silence.
"This is that locket," his mother said softly, placing it in his palm. "Maybe it is something immortal. Maybe it is just… the recognition of your former parents. Who knows?"
She closed his fingers over it. Her hands were cold. "Li'er… rest early. You have a long journey tomorrow."
She kissed his forehead—a lingering, aching touch—then stood and moved away. His father followed with a last, wordless look, a father's love and a stranger's pain warring in his eyes.
The door closed softly behind them.
Han Li was alone.
He sat in the deepening dark, the ring cold in his hand.
Why?
The question erupted inside him, hot and tearing.
Why did my parents leave me to die? Why did they give birth to me if they did not want me?
Tears he had held back now fell silently, dripping onto the worn wood of the table. His shoulders shook. He felt untethered, a boat cut loose in a sudden storm. The foundation of his life—the dusty home, the loving hands, the name 'Han Li'—all of it felt like a story he'd been told, a robe that didn't quite fit.
He stared at the ring until his vision blurred.
But Han Li was, at his core, a survivor. The boy who had endured hunger, who had dreamed toward the clouds, who had chosen himself when fate was silent.
He took a deep, ragged breath.
Okay, he thought, the pain hardening into something quieter, colder. Whatever it was… you must have had something more important than me.
He closed his eyes.
Let me forget.
What is the point of drowning my energy on those who… may already be dead?
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't understanding. It was a decision—to survive, to move forward, to carry the wound but not let it bleed him dry.
The night stretched on, endless and hollow. Han Li sat with his thoughts, his past unraveled, his future uncertain, the ring a cold, silent weight in his palm. He did not sleep. His eyes stayed open, fixed on nothing, his mind lost between two lives.
Outside, the village slept. The wind whispered through the thatched roofs, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and distant pine. Somewhere far beyond the hills, in a realm untouched by mortal concerns, cultivators meditated under starlight, their energies weaving into the fabric of the world. But here, in this small room, a boy wrestled with a truth that felt heavier than any mountain.
He remembered fragments—not memories, but sensations. The cold. The dark. The sound of wind through hollow wood. A presence that had held him before letting go. Had it been warmth or a curse? Protection or abandonment?
He didn't know.
He held the ring up to the faint light seeping under the door. It absorbed the glow without reflecting it, as if swallowing light. It bore no inscription, no mark, no trace of its origin. Yet it felt… aware. Not alive, but watchful. A silent witness to a story he had never been told.
A soft creak from the main room told him his parents were also awake. He heard the rustle of cloth, a whispered exchange too faint to decipher. They were keeping vigil with him, in their own way. The thought brought no comfort—only a deeper, more complicated ache.
He lay back on his thin mattress, the ring pressed between his palm and his heart. He did not pray. He did not dream. He simply… existed, in the liminal space between the child he was and the person he would now have to become.
Time blurred.
The deep indigo of night softened at the edges, fading into the cool grey of pre-dawn. The first birds began to call—tentative, then sure. Life, indifferent to revelation, continued.
Finally, the first true light seeped through the shutters, painting thin gold lines across the floor.
A soft knock. His mother entered, her eyes puffy but calm. She did not speak of the night. Instead, she laid out the new clothes Second Uncle had brought—simple but sturdy trousers and a tunic of deep forest green.
"Bathe, Li'er," she said softly—like she was preparing him for a winter she couldn't follow him into. "Wear these. Your master will come soon."
Han Li moved as if in a dream. He washed with cold water, scrubbing away the dust and the sweat and the tears. The water was sharp on his skin, waking him from the numbness of the long night. He dried himself and put on the new clothes. The fabric was coarse but clean, and when he fastened the tie, he looked into the cracked sliver of mirror they kept by the wash basin.
A stranger looked back.
The fine features were the same, but the eyes were older. The green tunic suited him—it made his skin seem clearer, his bearing straighter. He looked less like a village boy and more like… the beginning of something else. A young scholar, perhaps. Or a disciple.
His gaze fell on the ring, still on the table.
After a long, still moment, he picked it up. He slipped the leather cord over his head. The ring settled against his chest, hidden beneath the green tunic—a cold secret against his skin, cold like the truth.
He tied his sash twice—not because it was loose, but because his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He stepped out of the small room.
His mother had steamed buns. The scent filled the small house—warm, yeasty, familiar. It was the smell of home, of mornings, of comfort. But today, it tasted of endings.
They sat and ate in silence. The bun was soft, steaming in his hands. He chewed slowly, each bite a memory—of hungry nights, of shared meals, of his mother's smile when he ate well.
Then, from outside, clear in the morning stillness—
DANG—
The bell cut through the quiet like a blade breaking a dream.
It was not the village bell. It was the same clear, resonant tone from yesterday. Master Lu's summons.
The family's focus shifted as one. All else—the secret, the tears, the ring—was pushed aside by the sound of destiny calling.
Han Li stood. He looked at his parents—the only parents he had ever known—and saw their love, their fear, their pride.
He nodded once, a silent promise. Then he turned and walked to the door.