The village lay quiet beneath the falling dusk, its crooked paths and worn rooftops cloaked in a hush that felt unnatural. Since returning from the hill, the Li family had exchanged few words. It wasn't silence borne of calm—but of uncertainty, like the breath before a storm.
Inside their modest wooden home, the hearth crackled faintly, offering warmth that none of them felt. Zhenyuan sat closest to the fire, his legs drawn to his chest, staring at the flickering flames as if searching for meaning in their dance. He had barely spoken since they returned. A strange coldness lingered inside him, nestled beneath his ribs, untouched by the fire or the thick blanket around his shoulders.
It changed me, he thought, rubbing his palms together absently. The moment I touched it… something inside me shifted. It was like being cracked open. His mind drifted back to the runes, the pulse of energy that had hummed in his bones. But most of all, he remembered the feeling—the overwhelming sense of being seen.
Behind him, Hui leaned against the doorway with arms crossed. His sharp eyes, usually alive with sarcasm, were dark with unease. "You're too quiet, Zhen. That thing didn't bite you, did it?"
Zhenyuan shook his head slowly. "No. But… it knows me. I felt it."
Hui's smirk flickered and failed. He hated this—this sense of helplessness. He was supposed to be the steady one, the one who deflected pain with wit and fear with firewood jokes. But ever since they left the clearing, something had been gnawing at the edge of his thoughts.
If this path leads Zhenyuan away from us… will I be strong enough to stop it?
He'd never feared monsters or wild animals—things with names and claws could be fought. But this was something else. A force without a face, a future they couldn't predict. And that terrified him.
Jian, the eldest, crouched near the cooking pot, stirring quietly. The wooden spoon scraped against the iron slowly, methodically. He was always methodical. Every decision, every task, every thought, weighed and balanced. That was how he protected his family—by thinking ahead, by keeping them grounded.
But now? He was out of his depth.
What good is cleverness if I don't understand the danger? What use is caution when the rules no longer apply?
He looked up at Zhenyuan, his little brother who now carried something vast and ancient inside him. He'd always believed in guiding the family from behind, letting Father lead and keeping his brothers steady. But now, Zhenyuan might outrun them all.
He hated that thought.
"Father," Jian said, his voice even but low, "what happens next?"
Li Qingshan stood with his back to them, looking out the window at the sliver of moon in the sky. He hadn't spoken much since they returned either—not because he didn't want to, but because words alone couldn't shield them from what had begun.
Finally, he turned. "Tomorrow, we go back. It has chosen Zhenyuan. We must complete the recognition ritual."
"You knew about it?" Hui asked, startled. "You recognized it right away."
Qingshan nodded, slowly. "It is a relic of the Divine Transformation stage… something that should not be here, not in this forgotten corner of Tianyu. And yet it is."
He didn't tell them everything. Not yet. Not about the scars it stirred in him, or the life he had buried. But the tremor in his fingers betrayed the weight of memory.
I swore never to drag them into this world, he thought. But fate has never cared for oaths.
Later that night, after the food was eaten in silence, the three brothers lay awake in the loft above the hearth.
Zhenyuan stared at the ceiling beams.
"I think it wants me to do something," he whispered. "That relic… it's not just a thing. It's alive."
Hui rolled over to face him. "Then we burn it. Bury it again. Walk away."
"We can't," Zhenyuan said, almost apologetically. "I think… it woke something inside me. I want to understand it. Not for myself—"
"Then why?"
Zhenyuan hesitated, then breathed the words. "So I can protect you."
Hui froze. For a moment, he had no witty retort.
Zhenyuan sat up, his voice trembling. "You two—Jian, Hui—you've always watched over me. I was the weakest, the slowest. I know that. But now… if this is my chance to grow stronger, then I have to take it. Because if anything ever happened to you—"
"You idiot," Hui said, sitting up beside him. "We don't want you to protect us. That's not how this works."
"But isn't it?" Zhenyuan looked at him. "Wouldn't you do the same?"
Hui turned away, jaw clenched.
Of course I would. I just… I'm afraid I'll lose you before you even become that strong.
He didn't say it.
In the corner, Jian's eyes were open. Listening. Weighing. Feeling the strain in his chest like a coiled rope.
They're both rushing forward, and I'm here trying to hold them back—again.
He remembered a time, years ago, when bandits came near the village. Qingshan was away. It had been Jian who calmed the other families, hid the younger children, stood in front of their door with a sickle in hand.
He wasn't the strongest. But he was steady.
And now? He felt that steadiness slipping.
Maybe I'm not enough anymore.
Dawn crept into the sky, golden light spilling across the hills. Qingshan led them back to the clearing without a word. The air felt charged, as though the world itself held its breath.
The relic pulsed faintly in the earth, as if waiting.
This time, Qingshan came prepared. He knelt and etched a circle of runes into the soil—symbols that shimmered faintly with spiritual resonance. "Zhenyuan," he said, "step inside."
Hui gripped Zhenyuan's shoulder. "You sure about this?"
Zhenyuan nodded. "I have to be."
Jian stepped forward too. "We'll be right here."
As Zhenyuan knelt in the circle and pressed his hands to the relic once more, something awakened.
Light flared—not harsh, but warm. Like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
Zhenyuan's breath caught. The relic pulsed beneath his fingers, not with raw power, but with intent—ancient and strange. His thoughts scattered, and something flooded into him: images, whispers, fragments of a time lost to memory.
He saw a sky split in two, mountains floating on rivers of starlight. He felt the weight of lifetimes, the press of fate curling around him.
And a voice—not spoken, but felt.
You who still burn… carry the flame.
His body rose slightly above the ground.
Jian stepped forward instinctively. "Zhenyuan!"
Qingshan raised a hand to stop him, but Jian's heart pounded. He's still a child—my little brother. How much can he bear before it breaks him?
Hui didn't speak, but he was already counting. Counting the seconds. Counting how long Zhenyuan could stay within the ritual before it was too late.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the light vanished.
Zhenyuan crumpled to the earth.
They rushed to him, lifting him upright. He was breathing hard but conscious, eyes wide with wonder.
"I saw it," he whispered. "A sky with two moons. A temple above the clouds. Someone… someone called me by name."
The relic lay still. Spent. Dormant once more.
But something had changed.
Qingshan helped him up. "It has recognized you. Now it begins."
As they walked home, the wind stirred the trees gently. But in their hearts, a storm brewed.
Zhenyuan, burning with resolve. Hui, guarding his fear with fierce loyalty. Jian, steadying himself against the rising tide. And Li Qingshan—haunted by the echoes of the path they now walked.
The road ahead was uncertain, but one truth bound them all.
Each would give everything to protect the others.
Even if it meant walking through fire.