Fourteen years passed quietly, not with any grand change or sudden turning point, but with the slow, steady rhythm of an ordinary life that never stood out, where days blended into one another and responsibilities came before everything else, and Han Chandu grew up in that simplicity, studying while helping his family whenever he could, never questioning much, never expecting more, just moving forward step by step without realizing that something within him had always been missing, something buried so deep that even he could not feel it.
Their home was never filled with comfort, but it was never empty either, because even in its quiet struggles, there had always been someone holding everything together, his father, Han Yufei, a man who worked without rest, dividing his time between the fields and his job at the Han Group company, taking on heavy labor day after day without complaint, as if exhaustion was something he had long accepted, never speaking much, never showing much, but always present, always steady, the kind of person who didn't need words to prove his place in the family.
But that presence ended in the fourteenth year.
It was not a special day.
Not different.
Not memorable in any way.
Just another ordinary day of work.
Han Yufei had gone to the Han Group company as usual, carrying the same responsibilities, lifting the same weight, pushing his body the same way he always had, as if stopping was never an option.
And then—
Without warning—
His hand pressed against his chest.
His breathing faltered.
His body collapsed.
No final words.
No goodbye.
No chance to say anything.
By the time anyone understood what had happened—
It was already over.
The news reached home quietly, but its impact was anything but small, as the entire house seemed to fall into a silence that could not be broken, a silence that didn't need to be explained because everyone felt it the same way.
His mother didn't cry loudly.
She didn't scream.
She simply sat still, her hands unmoving, her gaze unfocused, as if the strength that had carried her until now had suddenly disappeared, leaving behind only something fragile that barely held together.
His younger sister stayed close to her, confused and scared, unable to fully understand what had happened but aware enough to know that something important had been lost, her small presence clinging to what little warmth remained.
His brother, Han Sen, reacted differently.
He didn't stay.
He didn't speak.
He didn't show anything.
He left the house that day and didn't return until late, his expression unchanged, his eyes avoiding everyone, as if acknowledging it would make it real, as if silence was easier than acceptance.
And in the middle of all of it—
Han Chandu stood there.
Watching.
Listening.
Understanding.
But not fully.
Because something inside him remained distant, as if a part of him had yet to awaken, as if what he felt was incomplete, not because he didn't care, but because something deeper had not yet returned.
Days passed.
Life continued.
But nothing was the same.
The house remained quiet, each person carrying their own grief in their own way, never fully expressing it, never fully escaping it.
Han Chandu continued moving forward, helping where he could, doing what was needed, but the absence remained, the silence never leaving, the weight of something unfinished lingering in everything he did.
And then—
One evening—
As he sat alone in his room, the quiet stretching endlessly around him, something shifted.
Not outside.
But within.
A faint sensation.
Unfamiliar.
Yet not entirely new.
His breathing slowed slightly, his focus sharpening as if something hidden was beginning to surface, something buried deep within him pushing toward awareness.
And then—
A faint panel appeared before his eyes.
Silent.
Unchanging.
[ Skill Panel ]
Taijutsu → 0 / 100
Super Body → Locked
Geno Lock → Not Opened
He looked at it quietly, his expression calm, not reacting, not questioning, as if he didn't fully understand what he was seeing, yet didn't feel surprised either.
There was no excitement.
No fear.
Only stillness.
The panel remained for a moment before settling into his awareness, not disappearing, but becoming something that would stay with him whether he acknowledged it or not.
Han Chandu exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly as his gaze lifted again.
Nothing had changed.
And yet—
Something had begun.
Outside, the night continued as it always had, unchanged and indifferent, while inside the small house, the silence remained heavy, filled with everything that had been lost.
And somewhere within that silence—
Han Chandu unknowingly took his first step.