The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew as the first light of dawn cast soft shadows across the courtyard. The Li residence, though simple, held a quiet dignity, with its well-kept wooden beams and carefully swept stone pathways. A light breeze rustled the bamboo at the edge of the courtyard, whispering through the leaves as if it too were part of the hushed conversation that was about to unfold.

  Inside the sleeping quarters, Li Heng stirred. His movements were slow and careful, mindful of his still-sleeping wife beside him. Her breathing remained steady, her face calm yet pale from the lingering effects of her strange illness. Not far from her, nestled beneath thick blankets, lay his youngest daughter, her small form barely visible in the dim light.

  Taking great care not to disturb them, Li Heng quietly pushed aside the blankets and rose from the bed. He straightened his robes, rubbed his face to shake off the last traces of sleep, and stepped out into the courtyard.

  The moment he did, his gaze landed on his two sons, who were already seated on the stone benches near the old plum tree. They were deep in discussion, their voices low but urgent. Though Li Yuntai sat with his usual straight-backed posture, there was a tension in his shoulders that was uncharacteristic of him. Li Xun, normally composed, had an unspoken anxiety in his eyes.

  Something was wrong.

  The brothers turned the moment they sensed his presence, immediately rising to their feet.

  “Father,” they greeted in unison, bowing respectfully.

  Li Heng studied them for a brief moment before stepping closer and lowering himself onto the bench across from them. His eyes, sharp with wisdom and experience, swept over their tense expressions.

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice calm yet firm. “Why do you both look troubled so early in the morning?”

  The two brothers exchanged a glance. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only silent understanding. Yuntai, as the elder, took the lead.

  “Father,” he began slowly, carefully choosing his words, “something… strange happened last night.”

  Li Heng’s brows furrowed slightly, but he remained silent, allowing his son to continue.

  Yuntai inhaled deeply before recounting everything—the golden talisman, the inscriptions merging with their souls, the newfound clarity of mind, and the inexplicable knowledge that had appeared within them. He explained the mention of the Heavenly Source Monument, the Tao Seed, and the cultivation method that had been imparted to them.

  With every word, the calm expression on Li Heng’s face began to shift. At first, his brows merely creased, but soon, his entire posture tensed. By the time Yuntai finished speaking, his father’s face had gone pale.

  A heavy silence followed.

  The courtyard, once peaceful, now felt suffocating under the weight of unspoken thoughts. The distant chatter from the marketplace beyond their residence seemed worlds away.

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  Li Heng’s fingers tightened around the fabric of his robe, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  He finally spoke, but his voice was quieter now, almost hollow.

  “Are you certain… that this knowledge came from the Heavenly Source Monument?”

  Li Xun, who had been listening quietly until now, nodded. “Yes, Father. The name appeared clearly in our minds. And the method of cultivating… it was detailed, as if it had always been there.”

  Li Heng exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples as if trying to suppress an oncoming headache. His gaze flickered toward the hidden chamber within their house—the place where the Heavenly Source Monument was kept.

  “I don’t know enough,” he admitted. “But I know this much—anything related to immortals is never simple. If the monument has chosen you both, then you are already walking a path that may bring fortune or calamity.”

  The two brothers felt a cold shiver run down their spines.

  Yuntai swallowed. “Father, then what do we do?”

  Li Heng closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again, a sharp glint of resolve now visible.

  “For now,” he said slowly, “you tell no one. Not your friends, not your acquaintances, no one outside this family. If anyone learns of this, there is no telling what dangers may come knocking on our doors.”

  The two brothers nodded solemnly.

  Li Heng took a deep breath. “We will speak more of this tonight. I need time to think. For now… go about your day as if nothing has changed.”

  But deep in his heart, Li Heng knew—everything had changed.

  The streets of Yunshan bustled with life. Vendors called out their wares, carts rumbled over the stone pathways, and the scent of fresh pastries mingled with the distant aroma of medicinal herbs. Despite the lively commotion outside, within the Magistrate’s Mansion, a sense of quiet authority prevailed.

  Inside a modest yet dignified parlour, Magistrate Zhao Feng sat at the head seat. The room was arranged with simple yet sturdy wooden chairs—four on each side—positioned symmetrically, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft glow of the lanterns. At Zhao Feng’s right, two men sat—one in his prime with the presence of a seasoned general, the other younger, bearing the sharpness of a rising commander. Both were clad in military attire, their expressions composed yet serious.

  A servant approached, carefully setting down a fresh pot of black orchid tea, a rare delicacy even in Yunshan. As the steam rose, filling the air with a rich, earthy fragrance, Zhao Feng took a measured sip before glancing at his two guests.

  “This tea,” he remarked, swirling the liquid in his cup, “is from the southern provinces. They say it grows only in the mist-covered valleys, far from the reach of ordinary merchants.”

  The younger man, Qin Hao, took a sip as well, his brow lifting in surprise. “The flavor is deeper than what we usually drink. Smooth, but with a sharp aftertaste.”

  The older man, General Wei Zhong, set his cup down with a knowing smile. “Good tea is like war. The first taste is enticing, but the bitterness lingers.” He turned his gaze to Zhao Feng.“I assume we are not here simply for tea, Magistrate?”

  Zhao Feng chuckled lightly before his expression turned serious. “Indeed, we have matters to discuss.”

  He placed his cup aside, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of his chair. “First, regarding the recruitment efforts—how many have joined so far?”

  Qin Hao leaned forward. “The numbers are promising. Over three hundred men have signed up in the past two weeks. However, their quality varies. Some are former soldiers, but many are inexperienced villagers seeking coin.”

  Wei Zhong scoffed. “Coin cannot train a sword arm overnight. They will need time.”

  Zhao Feng nodded. “Time is a luxury we may not have.” He paused before continuing, his tone heavier. “I received information from the Northern Border Fortress last night. The barbarians have attacked.”

  Both Qin Hao and Wei Zhong’s expressions darkened.

  “The situation?” Wei Zhong asked, his voice steady.

  “The attacks were sudden and brutal. The fortress managed to hold, but food supplies are running low. The barbarians are facing famine, which makes them desperate. If reinforcements do not arrive soon, our defenses will weaken.”

  Qin Hao exhaled sharply. “So it’s as we feared. They’re not attacking for conquest—they’re attacking for survival.”

  Zhao Feng’s gaze hardened. “Exactly. And that desperation makes them even more dangerous.” He reached for a scroll on the table and unrolled it. “That is why my nephew, Zhao Rui, departed four days ago with reinforcements. However, the second wave of troops is still being prepared. Zhao Liang will oversee their training and command them.”

  Wei Zhong nodded approvingly. “Zhao Liang is a fine choice. But time will be against him. Training recruits while knowing the war is already at their doorstep will be no easy task.”

  Qin Hao crossed his arms. “How long before the second wave is ready?”

  “A few weeks at most,” Zhao Feng answered. “Not ideal, but we have little choice.”

  Wei Zhong sighed. “Then we must hope the fortress holds until then.”

  Zhao Feng’s fingers tightened slightly around his teacup. He glanced at the map spread on the table, the inked borders and military formations stark against the parchment.

  “There is no hoping,” he said quietly. “We must ensure it holds.”