The Rising Undercurrent · A Father and Son's Conversation
Night draped Niu Pu Village in ink-black silence. Within the wooden houses of the Wan family, the only source of light came from the flickering flame atop the charcoal stove, casting faint shadows that danced across Wan Xiaochuan's face—a tapestry of complex emotions.
He sat by the table, his gaze intermittently drifting toward his father, Wan Liqiao. Dressed in a simple azure shirt, Wan Liqiao's brow bore a weighty gravity and an unspoken sternness. On the table lay a few humble dishes: the fresh green of stir-fried wild vegetables, the smoky aroma of roasted spirit trout, and a steaming bowl of rice porridge. Wan Xiaochuan's fingers lightly traced the edge of the bowl, yet his heart felt heavy with unspoken burdens.
"Xiaochuan, have you encountered any bottlenecks in your cultivation these years?" Wan Liqiao's voice was low but laced with hope.
Wan Xiaochuan lowered his eyes, his fingertips tapping the table unconsciously. "I feel the spiritual energy never flows smoothly. My dantian often aches, as if something blocks the path within."
Wan Liqiao nodded, a sharp glint of severity flickering in his eyes. "This is a test of both your constitution and your mind, a pain every cultivator must endure on the path."
He paused, then his tone deepened with gravity. "Xiaochuan, there is unrest within our home lately. You must remain vigilant. The world holds more than just visible enemies—hidden currents stir beneath, quietly surging."
Wan Xiaochuan lifted his gaze; his pupils contracted slightly as if sensing an invisible weight pressing down upon his shoulders.
"Father, who is behind these covert plots?" he asked softly, waves of turmoil rising within.
Wan Liqiao's expression tightened. "Your mother, Ceng Lihui, and your sister, Yazhen—on the surface, gentle and kind, but each harbors secret designs. They have long coveted our family's wealth and cultivation secrets."
A tightness gripped Wan Xiaochuan's throat. His chopsticks trembled slightly in his hand, lips pressed into a thin line. A torrent of conflicting emotions—familiar yet estranged—wove disappointment with wary resolve.
"This only makes me understand more deeply that strength is the only shield," he thought silently, a resolute light flickering in his eyes.
As father and son spoke, the hearth fire blazed brighter, its warm glow painting their faces red, illuminating the hidden trials and bitter hardships of the long immortal path ahead.
A gentle night breeze stirred through the room, lifting a paper fan and carrying a chill. Wan Xiaochuan breathed deeply, turning his father's words over again in his mind.
He knew this path would never be smooth. The family's tangled strife was only the beginning—greater challenges awaited him beyond the horizon.
The next morning, Wan Xiaochuan stood beside the stream outside the village, clutching the talisman his father had entrusted to him the night before.
The water was icy cold, reflecting the morning light and his steadily hardening expression. The wind-thunder sigils on the talisman flickered faintly, seemingly harboring boundless energy.
He pressed the talisman to his forehead, his divine sense stirring gently as if resonating with the power of wind and thunder within. The mingling sounds of wind and thunder roared softly in his mind, igniting a flame in his heart.
This was his starting point on the path of cultivation—and the turning point of his fate.
With determined steps and a sharp gaze, he embarked upon the unknown immortal road, ready to face the storms and glory that awaited.