The air was thick with quiet tension, like the forest holding its breath.
Evening settled over the mountains, dyeing the trees with fading gold. A hush lingered around the newly cleared patch of land where the relic lay nestled beneath earth and stone, now carefully reburied beneath a woven mat of bark and moss. Though it no longer shone, its presence pulsed subtly—a heartbeat of energy only those attuned could feel.
Zhenyuan sat cross-legged just a few paces from it, palms pressed together, his breath steady, though sweat slicked his brow. His clothes clung to him, damp from the hours of sitting unmoving, drawing in the qi that now saturated this once-barren land. Each breath tugged spiritual energy into his meridians like fine threads pulled through silk.
Around him, silence was reverent.
A gentle glow enveloped his form—barely visible to the naked eye, but to his family, it was undeniable.
He was cultivating.
At last.
Li Qingshan watched from a distance, seated beneath a tree, a faint breeze rustling his graying hair. He was silent, his eyes unreadable, yet something deep within him shifted.
That his son could draw in even a wisp of qi meant the relic had truly begun its work. This place—the forest, the soil, the very air—had changed.
The world was no longer still.
But so too was the past stirring.
"Zhenyuan…" Qingshan called softly after some time, rising from his seat.
The boy opened his eyes. They were clearer now, brighter—as if the dust of his former life had been swept away in a single night.
"Yes, father?"
Qingshan knelt before the relic. He placed one palm on the earth above it, closed his eyes, and drew in a breath.
The ground thrummed faintly. The pulse met his skin and surged through his arm like warm fire. His body stiffened—not from pain, but recognition. The relic was answering him.
Power coursed through his ruined meridians, bypassing the torn, fractured pathways with its own divine logic. He gasped—his back arching, heart racing.
Hui and Jian rushed toward him, but he raised a hand.
"No. Stay back."
They froze.
Moments passed. The light surrounding him grew stronger, almost too bright to look at. Then, with a thunderous beat—like a drum echoing from the heavens—the light snapped inward, collapsing into his chest.
Qingshan fell forward, gasping, his fingers clawing at the dirt. But when he rose again, he stood straighter than he had in years. His eyes gleamed—not with youthful vitality, but the calm of a man who had returned from the edge.
"Soul Condensation," he whispered, feeling the familiar hum. "Seventh stage."
Later that night, the family gathered around a small fire, steam rising from a pot of foraged roots and mushrooms. The glow of the flames flickered across their faces, and for once, the silence between them was not borne from fear or uncertainty, but expectation.
They waited for him to speak.
Qingshan stirred the pot absently.
"I suppose you deserve the truth," he began, voice low. "All of it."
Zhenyuan sat closest to him, eyes wide and eager. Hui leaned back, arms crossed, expression guarded. Jian, ever the listener, kept his gaze on the fire but his mind clearly elsewhere.
"I was once a Golden Core cultivator," Qingshan said. "At the peak of that realm. I'd forged my foundation in blood and ice. Back then, I was called something else—my real name, long buried."
He did not speak it aloud.
"I was a part of something… vast. A sect of many warriors, brilliant minds, and terrifying ambition. We were pulled into a war—one that shook the heavens. It wasn't just over land or pride. It was over principles. The power to control fate, to bind life and death, was within reach. And so we fought."
His hand clenched the wooden ladle.
"Even at my strength, I was nothing before those that came. Divine Transformation cultivators who could draw upon the will of the heavens. They… were not human in any way I understood. Some fought for ideology. Others simply fought because they could."
He exhaled deeply, the weight of memory pressing down on his chest.
"I was wounded, my core shattered. My foundation—damaged beyond healing. So I ran. Not from cowardice… but to survive. I came here to die in peace. But fate is a strange thing."
Zhenyuan leaned forward. "And the relic…?"
"I don't know why it chose now to awaken. But its energy… it's pure. Gentle, yet potent. It doesn't belong here. This world—it's barren of cultivation for a reason. But the relic ignores that. Perhaps… it seeks a bearer."
He looked at Zhenyuan, long and hard.
"Or perhaps it answered you."
Later, when the others slept, Zhenyuan remained by the fire, gaze fixed on the stars. His fingers twitched, still remembering the sensation of qi moving through him. But his thoughts weren't of power or glory.
They were of Hui, always joking to hide his fear. Of Jian, who acted like a man already burdened with a father's duty. Of their father, carrying a past too heavy to speak of until now.
"I won't let them get hurt again," Zhenyuan murmured. "If I can grow stronger… I'll protect them all."
Not far behind him, Hui stood beneath a tree, unseen.
He gripped a stone in his hand, his jaw tight.
He had laughed earlier, teasing Zhenyuan for glowing like a lantern—but inside, a storm brewed.
Zhenyuan is already changing. He's becoming someone else.
What if we lose him to this?
He pressed the stone into his palm until it hurt.
I need to be strong too. Strong enough to keep up… strong enough to hold this family together if it comes to it.
And in the shadow of the tent, Jian lay awake, eyes open to the moonlight.
He hadn't spoken much during Qingshan's story. But it played over and over in his mind—the power, the war, the flight.
Even father was afraid of them. Even he couldn't stand against it.
A pit grew in his chest.
Then what hope do I have? I'm not clever enough. Not strong enough.
But even as the doubt twisted within, another thought came.
Then I must learn. Plan. Be ready.
His role wasn't brute strength. Nor divine talent.
It was foresight.
By the time the sun rose over the hills, each member of the Li family had changed—if not in body, then in resolve.
Zhenyuan continued his cultivation, drawing qi in steadily, his pace increasing with each breath.
Hui began his own attempts, sitting awkwardly by the edge of the relic's reach, pretending not to care, yet trying earnestly.
And Jian began watching the mountains—mapping the terrain, noting shadows, measuring distances.
Li Qingshan, for the first time in years, stood tall with his hands behind his back and his eyes to the horizon.
The relic had not just awakened qi.
It had awakened purpose.
And something more.
The wind carried it down from the hills—a whisper, faint, but growing clearer with each passing day.