The final, fragile peace of the Tian family lasted for only a few short weeks after Shu Yan shared the secret of the Phoenix Nine Reversal Refining Qi. The confession had been a desperate act of love.
In the weeks that followed, a strange stillness settled over the house. Tian Xin hunted less, his gaze constantly drawn back to his wife, and moved through their home like a ghost. The limp was still there, only visible when he walked, but it could be ignored when danger demanded. It was a testament to his relentless practice of the Eight Hidden Inner Turtle Breaths martial art, allowing him to suppress the physical pain.
Tian Shen Ji continued his practice, consuming his meals with a forced intensity, battling the insatiable energy drain of his unnaturally skinny body. His father, Tian Xin, walked with a heavier step, his vigilance heightened, his eyes never leaving his son. The shared, unspoken fear filled the small house, heavy and cold as mountain mist.
One crisp, windless morning, the silence that fell over the house was different. It was heavier, colder, and utterly final.
Tian Shen Ji awoke not to the smell of woodsmoke or the sound of his father's gentle stirring, but to a sound he had never imagined possible: the ragged, earth-shattering grief of a strong man utterly broken.
He rushed to the bedside. Tian Xin stood like a shattered statue, his head bowed, his towering strength replaced by a terrifying, hollow collapse. Shu Yan lay perfectly still. Her fragile beauty, marked by dark hair, naturally red lips, and quiet grace, had settled into an unearthly stillness. Her small and fragile life, sustained for years beyond its natural limit, had fallen into an eternal sleep.
Tian Shen Ji reached out and touched her hand. The cold, unyielding reality of death was a final, sickening confirmation. All the courage, all the secret cultivation, all the pure love—it had only lasted this long.
The tears that finally came were not just the simple sorrow of a six-year-old boy; they were the tears of a cynical soul mourning the loss of the first and only person who had ever offered him unconditional refuge.
Tian Xin scooped up his son, clinging to the only piece of his world remaining. The hunter's deep sobs rocked the boy, and Tian Shen Ji felt the immense, terrifying vulnerability of his father. His father, the paragon of simple kindness, was now defenseless in his grief.
Tears streamed down Tian Shen Ji's face, even as his soul raged: Why am I crying like a child? I... I... just need to reach those divine realms, Yes, those divine realms. The Epoch Giants were messing with the cycle of reincarnation without much of a problem. I just need to reach those realms. How hard can it be? So why, why do I still keep crying?
Tian Xin pressed his face against his son's hair, his internal torment matching his son's confusion: I must be strong, Shu Yan, for our son. He feels what I feel. I owe him so much for the happiness he brought to you, but I can't, Shu Yan. I am such a pathetic man, I am such a pathetic father.
The two were now bound in shared despair. The cold core of Tian Shen Ji's soul locked onto his mother's final image. The universe had taken his protector. His new purpose was absolute: to seek Absolute Power to bring her back, or at least to ensure he was never powerless again.
Word of Shu Yan's passing spread through Xiao Tian Village with the speed of wildfire. Within the hour, the house was filled with the quiet murmur of sympathetic villagers. Tian Xin was a man of long-standing lineage, and though Shu Yan had been an outsider, the couple's benevolence had earned them deep respect.
The villagers organized the traditional mountain funeral rites. They brought dried flowers and herbs, simple offerings, and warm hands to prepare the house. The Solitary Widow, whose son Tian Xin often fed, was the first to arrive, refusing to leave Tian Xin's side. The people of Little Heaven proved Tian Xin's code to be true: in their community, kindness was repaid with loyalty.
Tian Shen Ji observed it all through the haze of his grief. He watched his mother's body, being wrapped in the finest linen they possessed. He watched the grave on the edge of the village, in a clearing overlooked by an old, gnarled cherry tree—a spot Shu Yan often said was the most beautiful.
The funeral itself was a quiet, somber affair. The entire village attended. Tian Xin stood by the grave, a towering figure of sorrow. He wore his finest, if slightly worn, hunter's tunic. His deep eyes, usually so sharp and lively, were bloodshot and vacant. When he spoke, his voice was barely a rasp.
"Shu Yan brought grace to my hard life," he managed to say, struggling to keep his feet steady. His limp seemed more pronounced than ever. "She gave me my son, Shen Ji. She was my greatest treasure, she was my everything ." He could say no more. He stood there, a symbol of their communal sorrow, unable to even lift the shovel to start the burial.
The village elder stepped forward, laying a hand on Tian Xin's broad shoulder, and gave the signal. The community filled the grave, surrounding Tian Xin and Tian Shen Ji in a protective circle of shared mourning.
In the weeks that followed, the grief settled into the house like a permanent frost. The villagers offered comfort, bringing food and helping Tian Xin with his traps, but their kindness could not reach the hunter's broken spirit.
Tian Xin stopped training the Eight Hidden Inner Turtle Breaths. He still kept a fire going and cooked for his son, always watching him, but the man who had been a disciplined, powerful hunter was gone, replaced by a ghost of sorrow. He often sat by the fire, simply staring at the dark-gold-and-red scroll of the Phoenix Nine Reversal Refining Qi, a portrait of his guilt and failure.
He allowed Tian Shen Ji to practice the martial arts and the secret technique, knowing that strength was maybe the thing that would allow his son to never be in his position. But the lessons were now silent. There was no more talk of "kindness" or when to use power.
For Tian Shen Ji, the silence was a vacuum that pulled him deeper into his memories, memories that have created his previous views on life. The world his father believed in—a world where goodness protects you—was a lie. His mother's death was the inevitable consequence of a cruel, indifferent world— that doesn't give a crap about the kindness and goodness of his people, a world where frailty was fatal. He looked up at his father, now weeping silently in the dark, and saw how nothing good had come his way, despite him being a genuine kind person.
He intensified his cultivation practice, pushing his thin, hungry body to its limit, driven by the searing image of his father's utter despair. The true threat was not outside, but the weakness within. He now had a purpose, forged and defined by necessity to reach those divine realms and change his mother's inevitable fate,''I am sorry, Father, but I cannot afford to be kind like you.''