The dense forest stretched endlessly, the towering trees whispering in the wind as the golden light of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and red. Han Zhe stood motionless, watching his youngest son, Han Ye, seated on the forest floor.

  His breathing was steady, unnaturally so. His eyes were closed, his expression calm—too calm for a boy who had never cultivated before.

  And yet, Han Zhe could feel it.

  A faint shift in the air, subtle but undeniable. The flow of Qi was moving toward Han Ye, drawn in by his very presence.

  Han Zhe’s fingers tightened slightly around the bow he carried. This shouldn’t be happening.

  Most young cultivators spent weeks just trying to sense Qi, months before they could properly absorb it. Yet Han Ye had done it in minutes.

  And what unsettled Han Zhe even more was the way he spoke about it—calmly, logically, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

  "I found a better way."

  Those words had sent a chill down Han Zhe’s spine.

  Han Ye wasn’t just talented. He was thinking differently.

  That was dangerous.

  ---

  For years, Han Zhe had watched his youngest son grow.

  Unlike his elder brother, Han Liang, who was a natural-born warrior—strong, instinctive, and fiery—Han Ye had always been… different.

  Where other children pyed, he observed.

  Where others accepted, he questioned.

  Even as a small child, his mind had always been sharp. He had a habit of analyzing everything, sometimes in ways that made even the elders of their vilge pause.

  When he was ten, he had asked a question that still haunted Han Zhe to this day.

  "Father, why do the stars move?"

  It was such a simple thing. A child’s curiosity.

  But the way he had asked it—his voice thoughtful, his tone too measured—it was as if he had already formed a theory and merely wanted confirmation.

  And then came the inventions.

  A better way to reinforce bowstrings. A simple but efficient fire-starting tool. A mechanism to store and release arrows faster.

  They were not miracles, but they were not things a ten-year-old should have been able to create.

  Han Zhe had dismissed it at first. Perhaps his son was just gifted. Perhaps he simply saw the world differently.

  But after tonight, there was no more doubt in his mind.

  Han Ye was not just different.

  He was something else entirely.

  "Han Ye," Han Zhe finally said, keeping his voice steady. "Expin."

  Han Ye opened his eyes. Calm. Unshaken.

  "I analyzed the process," he said simply. "Most people just sit and wait for Qi to enter them, but that’s inefficient. Qi has a natural flow, like water or air. Instead of passively waiting, I adjusted my breathing to match its movement. That made it easier to draw in."

  Han Zhe felt his heart tighten.

  That expnation was not possible.

  No one thought about Qi like that. It was something cultivators were taught to feel, not something to be understood like a science.

  And yet, here his son was—expining it as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Han Zhe took a slow breath, his mind racing.

  "Show me," he said. "Do it again."

  Han Ye nodded.

  He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, becoming unnaturally precise.

  Then, it happened.

  The air shifted.

  It was subtle, but Han Zhe felt it—a faint pull, like the air itself was bending toward his son.

  A ripple of Qi gathered around Han Ye.

  Han Zhe’s fingers twitched. This is not normal.

  Cultivators absorbed Qi like a man drinking water—slow, inefficient.

  But Han Ye wasn’t drinking Qi.

  He was siphoning it.

  Han Ye opened his eyes.

  "I think this way is better," he said casually, as if he had merely improved a hunting technique.

  Han Zhe’s grip tightened on his bow.

  This was beyond talent. Beyond genius.

  It was unnatural.

  "Who taught you this?" Han Zhe asked carefully.

  "No one," Han Ye said. "I just figured it out."

  His voice was clear. Honest.

  And that terrified Han Zhe more than anything.

  Silence stretched between them. The forest wind whispered through the trees, but Han Zhe barely heard it.

  He studied his son’s face, searching for any sign of hesitation, of deceit.

  But there was none.

  Han Ye was telling the truth.

  He had truly figured it out on his own.

  Han Zhe slowly exhaled.

  His mind raced through possibilities. Could this be natural talent? A heaven-sent genius? Or… something else?

  No, there was only one conclusion.

  This boy was too knowledgeable.

  It wasn’t just talent—it was as if he already knew how cultivation worked before he even started.

  Han Zhe had to act carefully.

  If the world discovered a boy like this…

  If the wrong people found out…

  His son would not be seen as a genius.

  He would be seen as a threat.

  Han Zhe took a slow breath, suppressing the storm in his heart.

  "You must never speak of this to anyone," he finally said.

  Han Ye frowned slightly. "Why?"

  "Because this is not normal," Han Zhe said gravely. "People fear what they do not understand. If others learn of what you can do, they will not praise you. They will fear you. And what people fear… they destroy."

  Han Ye was silent.

  Then, after a moment, he nodded. "I understand."

  Han Zhe studied him closely. No fear. No hesitation.

  His son accepted it easily.

  Too easily.

  Han Zhe finally stood, his expression unreadable. "Rest. We will continue tomorrow."

  Han Ye gave a small bow and turned to walk back toward the vilge.

  Han Zhe watched him go, his mind still reeling.

  He had been prepared for his son to grow into a hunter, perhaps even a warrior.

  But now, he knew the truth.

  Han Ye was meant for something greater.

  And that terrified him.

  Because the world did not reward those who were different.

  It devoured them.