The road stretched behind him like a faded dream.
Zhen didn't know how far he had walked. His legs were sore, trembling with each weak step. His thin arms hugged his stomach as it growled again, louder than before. The evening sun dipped low, casting golden rays that cut through the trees and painted everything in long, lonely shadows.
He stumbled.
A sharp stone cut into his foot, but the pain barely registered. He had been numb for hours—numb to the hunger, to the ache, to the world.
Then his small body gave up.
His knees buckled.
The last thing he saw was a bird taking flight against the orange sky.
And the moment he hit the dirt, the darkness embraced him like an old friend.
When he opened his eyes, the world was soft.
There was warmth under him—something strange, something unfamiliar. A wooden ceiling greeted him above, its beams worn but clean. The scent of warm soup drifted through the air, comforting and real. Beneath him, a proper mattress supported his frail body, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of herbs and soap.
Zhen blinked, eyes heavy.
He tried to sit up, confused. Was he dreaming?
The door creaked open.
A young woman stepped inside, carrying a small tray with a steaming cup of coffee. Her long black hair was tied back with a cloth ribbon, and her gentle face lit up when she saw him awake.
"Oh! You're up!" she said, her voice as kind as spring rain. She hurried to his side, kneeling beside the bed.
She placed the tray down, then patted his tangled hair with motherly care. Her hand was soft and warm.
"Are you feeling okay?"
Zhen stared at her, lips parted.
Warmth.
So unfamiliar.
It made his heart ache in confusion.
Before he could say anything, the door opened again. A man walked in—broad-shouldered, hands calloused from years of labor. His face bore a mixture of relief and curiosity. When his eyes landed on Zhen, he smiled gently.
But Zhen's instincts flared. His body recoiled.
He sat up, shaking, eyes wide with panic. "I—I don't want to hurt anyone… Please don't throw me out!"
His voice cracked, and his small shoulders quaked. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, and he began to cry, unable to stop.
The woman didn't hesitate.
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, holding him the way a mother would her frightened child. He felt her heartbeat, steady and warm, against his ear.
"It's okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You're safe now. No one's going to hurt you."
Zhen had never been held like this before. Not even by Master Yun. This wasn't discipline or pity—this was care. Real, honest care.
He wept harder.
But for the first time… not from pain.
From relief.
From a feeling of safety that cracked the shell around his heart.
His eyes fluttered shut, tears still wet on his cheeks. And in that fragile moment, surrounded by kindness, he fell asleep again.
The second time he woke, the light was softer—glowing gold through the wooden window, filling the room with a calm, sleepy warmth. Outside, birds chirped quietly.
A man sat near the window in a wooden chair, arms crossed, watching him with a faint smile.
Zhen shifted slightly.
The man stood and called, "Xin!"
The woman returned moments later, drying her hands with a cloth.
They came closer, and the man sat on the edge of the bed.
"I'm Lan Hai," he said kindly. "That's my wife, Lan Xin. I'm a blacksmith. She takes care of the home. We found you just outside the forest—half-dead from exhaustion."
Lan Xin crouched beside the bed and smiled. "What's your name, child?"
Zhen hesitated, eyes darting between them. "Zhen," he whispered.
"Just Zhen?" Lan Hai asked gently.
The boy nodded.
Lan Xin reached out and brushed some messy hair from his forehead.
"Where are you from, Zhen? Did someone hurt you?"
"I… I'm nobody," Zhen murmured. "Everyone hates me. They say I'm cursed… I don't even know why. The ones who helped me before… left me."
His voice broke again, and he wiped his nose with the blanket, ashamed.
Lan Hai and Lan Xin exchanged a look. Not pity—understanding.
"What about your parents?" Lan Xin asked gently.
Zhen's eyes welled up. "I… I don't know them. I don't remember anything. Not even their names…"
He clutched the blanket like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. "That pain never goes away. It's like… there's a hole in my chest that won't heal."
Silence filled the room.
Then Lan Hai gently placed a strong hand on Zhen's shoulder.
"You don't need to have all the answers now," he said. "You're still young. If you'd like, you can stay with us. Rest. Eat. Heal."
Lan Xin smiled softly. "And maybe, just maybe, find your path again."
Zhen stared at them.
"You… mean it?" he asked.
"Truly," she replied.
Zhen's small hands trembled.
For the first time, he didn't feel completely alone.
Later that evening, after a warm meal and a much-needed bath, Zhen sat wrapped in a thick quilt. Lan Hai brought him a folded tunic—small, but clean and well-sewn.
"This is for you," he said. "It might be a little bit, but it's yours."
Zhen looked at the tunic, then up at him. "Mine…?"
Lan Xin, sitting nearby, said gently, "Zhen… if you want, you don't have to wander anymore."
Zhen's voice was a whisper. "But I'm not special… I don't even know who I am…"
Lan Hai crouched down in front of him. "You're a child who needs love. That's enough for us."
Then Lan Xin leaned forward, her eyes shining.
"Would you like to be our son, Zhen?"
The words struck like lightning. His chest tightened. His fingers curled into the quilt.
No one had ever said something like that to him. Not even close.
"Son…?"
Lan Hai knelt. "If you'll have us… we'll protect you. Raise you. Love you. As our own."
Zhen stared at them, vision blurring.
Then—he nodded.
Tears flowed again, but this time, he didn't care. They were tears that washed away the cold.
"I want that…" he whispered. "I want to be your son…"
Lan Xin held him close, and Lan Hai placed his hand on Zhen's head.
"Then from today onward," Lan Hai said, voice firm with quiet joy, "you are Lan Zhen. Our son."
Zhen repeated the name to himself.
"Lan… Zhen…"
It felt warm. Whole.
It felt right.
That night, as he slept deeply for the first time in his life, his small hand curled into the blanket, and a faint glow shimmered beneath the skin of his chest—a dormant mark hidden even from himself.
Far away, beyond the mortal plane, in a world sealed by time and divine power, the eyes of a great Light Holy Dragon twitched faintly in its slumber.
Its child had taken his first step into the world.
And the wheels of destiny had begun to turn.