The scent of plum blossoms, delicate and sweet, drifted through the open window of the tea house. For nineteen years, this had been Xai's world: the gentle murmur of conversation, the clinking of porcelain, the soft rustle of silk as patrons passed by. He sat by the window, sunlight warming his face, sketching idly in a worn leather-bound book.
His subject today was an elderly woman across the street, her face a roadmap of wrinkles etched by time and laughter as she haggled good-naturedly with a fruit vendor. A simple scene, a simple life. A life he cherished with a quiet intensity he couldn't quite explain.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his temples, like a shard of ice piercing his skull. Xai winced, his hand instinctively flying to his forehead. The bustling sounds of the street seemed to warp and distort for a fleeting moment, replaced by a cacophony of roaring flames, the metallic tang of blood, and the chilling howls of… wolves? Not the mundane creatures of the mortal realm, but something ancient and terrifying.
The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him breathless and disoriented. He blinked, the familiar sights of the tea house swimming back into focus. Had he dozed off? He rarely experienced such vivid… episodes. They had started subtly a few weeks ago – fleeting images, whispers in the dead of night – but this was the most intense yet.
He rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the lingering unease. Just stress, he told himself. The upcoming harvest festival, perhaps. The village elder had been relying on him more lately, appreciating his meticulous record-keeping and calm demeanor.
A shadow fell across his table. Xai looked up to see two women standing there, their presence radiating an unusual intensity that seemed out of place in the tranquil tea house. They were dressed in simple traveling clothes, yet their eyes held a depth of sorrow and a fierce protectiveness that made the other patrons subtly shift away. One had hair the color of midnight, braided with silver threads that glinted in the sunlight. The other's was a fiery auburn, her gaze sharp and assessing.
"Xai?" the raven-haired woman asked, her voice low and resonant.
He nodded, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. He'd never seen these women before.
The auburn-haired woman stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. "We are your aunts, Lyra and Faelan."
Xai stared at them, dumbfounded. Aunts? He'd grown up an orphan, raised by the kind but elderly Master Lin. He had no known relatives.
Before he could voice his confusion, Lyra reached out, her hand surprisingly calloused, and gently took his. A jolt, not of pain but of something akin to recognition, shot through him. The fleeting images, the chilling howls… they flickered at the edge of his awareness again, sharper this time.
"There is much you do not know, nephew," Faelan said, her voice laced with a sorrow that echoed in Xai's own inexplicably aching heart. "Your peaceful life… it was a gift, a shield. But the time for shields is over."
Lyra's grip tightened. "We have come to tell you the truth of your lineage, Xai. You are not just a mortal. You are the last hope… of the Eternal Demon Wolf Clan."
The words struck him like a physical blow. Demon Wolf Clan? The name itself sounded ancient and mythical, something out of forgotten legends. He opened his mouth to protest, to deny the impossible, but the fragmented images in his mind intensified – the crimson stain on white snow, the desperate howls under a blood-red moon, the terrifying silhouette of winged figures descending from the heavens.
Faelan's eyes, the color of burning embers, held his gaze. "Nineteen years ago, the Heavenly Court, in their boundless arrogance and fear, orchestrated the massacre of our people. They hunted us down, deeming our very existence a threat to their celestial order." Lyra's voice trembled with suppressed rage. "Your parents… they sacrificed themselves to ensure your escape, to hide you in this mortal realm, hoping you would never have to know this pain."
The peaceful world Xai had known began to crumble around him, replaced by the horrifying fragments of a past he never knew was his. The gentle murmur of the tea house faded, replaced by the phantom cries of a slaughtered people.
"But," Faelan continued, her voice hardening with grim determination, "the blood of the Eternal Demon Wolf flows in your veins, Xai. It slumbers now, but it will awaken. You possess a power you cannot even imagine, a legacy that demands to be reclaimed."
Lyra's gaze softened slightly, though the sorrow remained. "We know you have lived a peaceful life, nephew. We understand if you wish to remain untouched by this darkness. But the Heavenly Court… they are relentless. They will eventually sense the stirring of your blood, the echo of our fallen clan."
A cold dread washed over Xai. The fleeting episodes, the increasing intensity… were they the whispers of his awakening heritage? The Heavenly Court… the name carried a weight of unimaginable power, a celestial authority that seemed untouchable.
"They will come for you, Xai," Faelan said, her voice a stark warning. "And when they do, your peace will be shattered in ways you cannot comprehend. Your only hope… our only hope… is for you to embrace your birthright, to cultivate the power that lies dormant within you."
The thought of abandoning his peaceful life, of embracing a violent legacy of demons and revenge, filled him with a profound reluctance. Yet, the images of crimson snow and dying howls echoed in his mind, a primal sorrow stirring within him. And in the depths of that sorrow, a flicker of something else began to ignite – a cold, nascent fury.
He looked from Lyra's sorrowful eyes to Faelan's burning gaze. The choice they presented was terrifying, yet the alternative – a peaceful ignorance that would inevitably lead to his destruction – felt even worse.
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the mortal world, a world that suddenly felt fragile and fleeting. Finally, Xai spoke, his voice barely a whisper.
"What… what do I need to do?"