The wind blew gently, making the grass sway, while across the river stood a small village. There, an eight-year-old boy ran home with a cheerful face toward his small and simple house—its walls made of old wood and its thatched roof fading with age, but its front yard was clean, decorated with a few potted plants lovingly cared for.
He opened the door. Inside, the house had only two rooms: a main room with a small wooden table, a bamboo rack filled with simple tools, and a stone stove in the corner that still held a faint warmth; while the bedroom was narrow but tidy, containing only a low wooden bed, a thin blanket, and a small window that allowed the morning light to enter softly. He headed toward the kitchen with a bright smile. "Mother… what are you cooking?" he asked with pure curiosity.
The evening breeze slipped in through the gaps of the thatched roof as little Zhao Long looked at his mother with blue eyes as clear as a springtime lake. The aroma of forest-root soup mixed with the scent of wood, warming the small room. His mother turned with a gentle smile, the fine lines on her face born from their simple life. "Zhao Long, I'm cooking red-leaf soup," she answered softly yet warmly, stirring the clay pot that released thin wisps of steam.
Zhao Long tilted his head, his eyes sparkling. "Mother… then Father will like it! Father is home already, right?" he asked so innocently, as if every day in the world always brought good news. He glanced at the door as if his father would appear at any moment, carrying firewood or telling stories from the forest like always.
His mother fell silent for a moment, then slowly closed the pot. "Not yet, Long'er. But he will be home soon," she said, though her tone carried a worry she tried to hide. Zhao Long pouted, then reached out for her with a small whine. "I want Father to come home soon… you said he didn't go far today."
She smiled, crouched down to his height, and gently stroked his black hair—a warm touch despite the creeping cold from outside. "Your father works hard for us, Long'er. Even though our life is difficult, and this house is nothing more than old wood on the verge of collapsing… he never gives up. He always comes home with a smile so you won't worry." Her words were soft, yet the faint tremble in her voice could not be hidden.
Zhao Long nodded, trying to hold back his urge to cling to her. "Alright, Mother… I understand." He then turned away and walked to his small bedroom. The wooden bed creaked softly as he lay down. The thatched roof above him had small gaps of light forming thin lines in the air, as if the outside world was whispering to him. Zhao Long closed his eyes, imagining everything he would do when his father returned: run to him, ask to be carried, or show him the strangely shaped stone he found by the river. Those thoughts made him smile until he eventually drifted into sleep, sinking into the innocent dreams of an eight-year-old child.
Two hours passed. The once clear sky had turned a thick, inky gray. The first raindrops fell, pattering softly against the roof before turning into a heavy downpour. The wind howled, carrying the scent of wet earth and cold air creeping into the house. Thunder cracked in the distance, its sound shaking the fragile wooden walls of their small home.
His mother stood near the door, her face tense, fingers intertwined. "Why hasn't he come home…" she whispered. She occasionally glanced toward Zhao Long's room, making sure her son was still fast asleep. When another flash of lightning streaked across the sky, she raised her hands and prayed in a voice nearly drowned by the rain. "Heavenly Gods… protect him. The forest path is dark, the wind is fierce… don't let anything happen to him. Bring him home… bring him home…"
Her final word was barely audible when a shadow appeared through the curtain of rain. The figure stumbled, its silhouette distorted by the storm. The mother froze. Her heart leapt as the figure approached closer. Slowly, hope broke through her fear. "That's… that's him," she whispered.
But as the figure neared, her smile faltered. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. His balance was off. His arm hung limp. And when lightning tore across the sky, her entire body stiffened. His eyes were vacant, his face covered in wounds, and blood streamed from his shoulder, mixing with the merciless rain.
"You… what happened…?" She rushed out into the storm, unbothered by the cold. Rain slapped her skin, drenching her clothes, but she didn't stop. She caught her husband just before he collapsed into the mud. "What happened?! Tell me!"
He clenched his teeth, swallowing the pain he refused to explain. "No… later… get inside… the rain…" he muttered, his voice hoarse and nearly carried away by the wind.
Trembling, she helped him inside. The rain poured relentlessly as droplets fell from their soaked clothes onto the wooden floor. She guided him to sit on the low bed near the stone stove, where the small flame cast dim, trembling light over his open wounds.
"Stay still… I'll get the medicine," she said, her voice shaking between panic and forced calm.
She hurried to grab the wooden box containing dried herbs, bandages, and bitter salves used by forest laborers. When she returned, her husband lowered his head, trying to hide the pain. The wound on his shoulder bled with a dark, steady flow.
"What happened? You wouldn't be injured like this from simply falling," she said quietly, her tone sharp with restrained fear.
He forced a stiff smile. "The forest path was slippery… I fell several times," he insisted. "Wet stones… I wasn't careful."
Her hand froze. She leaned closer, examining the wound: long slashes, blunt-force bruises—injuries no fall could cause. "Slippery?" she whispered, as if repeating the word would somehow make sense of it.
He held his breath. He knew she didn't believe him. No sane person would.
But he clung to the lie anyway.
"I'm sorry…" he thought. "I can't tell you what I saw. Cultivators from the northern clan… drunk with power… treating workers like playthings. If I tell you, your fear will turn into hatred. And Long'er… he can't grow up with a broken dream. I want him to become a cultivator, not live with bitterness."
She exhaled shakily and tended to his wounds, her trembling hands still gentle. "I don't know what happened, but I know you're lying," she said softly but firmly. "But… just for tonight, I won't force you."
Tears fell without her realizing—not from heartbreak, but from a fear too big to name.
In the small room, Zhao Long slept peacefully, unaware of the storm inside or outside his home.
The mother closed the medicine box slowly, steadying her breath. "Xiao… go rest. You need sleep," she said gently but with no room for refusal. Zhao Xiao wanted to protest, but exhaustion dragged at his entire body. He stood and shuffled toward the small room in the corner, lifted the worn curtain, and lay down. Pain shot through him with every movement, but worse than the pain was the truth he could not share. In the darkness, he closed his eyes, letting the rain become a thin blanket that muffled his thoughts.
Night passed slowly. Outside, the storm faded, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and cold morning air. When the first sunlight slipped through the thatched roof, their small home filled with warm golden light.
Zhao Long blinked awake, stretching on the creaking wooden bed. His hair was messy, his face still half-dreaming. He walked out of the room, rubbing his eyes and yawning. When his vision cleared, he saw his father sitting at the small table, eating the thin porridge his mother had made. His father looked exhausted, but a soft smile warmed his face.
"Father…!" The innocent cry filled the room. In an instant, Zhao Long ran forward and hugged his waist. "When did you get home? I didn't hear the door!" His eyes sparkled like morning stars, as if the world had never turned dark the night before.
Zhao Xiao froze for a moment. His wounds still throbbed, but the small embrace made him forget the pain. He gently patted his son's head. "Father came home late," he said with a smile. "You were already fast asleep, Long'er."
Zhao Long giggled and looked up at him with pride, as though his father was the strongest hero in the world.
Zhao Xiao's smile faltered... undetectable to his son, but painfully clear in his heart. A hero? No… not me. But if I stay like this… how can I protect him?
The thought echoed through him, bringing back the images of drunken, power-mad cultivators he had seen last night. This world is harsh. Too harsh for ordinary people.
He took a long breath.
Long'er… for your sake, I must change. If I want to protect you… must I also step onto the path of cultivation?