Andrew pushed through the bone forging stage with a grit that belied his small frame. Each session was a silent battle, his teeth clenched as waves of searing agony ripped through his bones. The pain was a relentless beast, clawing at his resolve, but he endured. There was no other path. His bones hardened, becoming like iron under his unyielding focus, even as sweat beaded on his brow and his breaths came in sharp, controlled gasps.
Lucy, meanwhile, soared in her own journey. She stood at the brink of organ forging, the threshold to true cultivator status. For someone with third-level talent, reaching this point by eighteen was respectable. Second-level talents often hit it by fifteen, and the rare first-rate prodigies sometimes crossed the line at thirteen or fourteen. Lucy, at fifteen, matched the pace of her peers with better talent, her energy pulsing stronger with each passing day. Andrew watched her progress with quiet admiration. She'd poured everything into her cultivation, and he felt a pull to honor that effort.
One humid afternoon, Lucy arrived at the small, familiar room in his home. The air was thick with the scent of earth and herbs from Eva's kitchen. Andrew waited until she settled cross-legged on the woven mat, her blonde hair catching the faint light filtering through the window. Then, with a deliberate motion, he rose and pushed the door shut. The soft click of the latch echoed in the quiet space.
She glanced up, her blue eyes narrowing with curiosity. "What's with the secrecy?"
He stood before her, his five-year-old frame somehow carrying the weight of a much older soul. His gaze was steady, unblinking. "Lucy, I've got something for you. A gift. You're close to becoming a true cultivator, and I see how hard you've fought for it."
Her lips parted slightly, a flicker of surprise dancing across her face. "A gift? Andrew, you didn't have to—"
"Listen," he cut in, his voice firm despite its youthful pitch. "I'm young, I know that. But I'm not blind to what's ahead. If you're willing, I want you to be my woman. When I grow up, if you agree, you'll only share a bed with me and no one else."
The words hung between them, heavy as a storm cloud. Lucy froze, her breath catching in her throat. A deep flush spread from her neck to her cheeks, painting her skin a vivid crimson. Her mind spun. At fifteen, her body was a chaotic storm of hormones, her thoughts often drifting in directions she couldn't control. Andrew, despite his age, was the only boy she spent real time with. Late at night, alone in her bed at the academy or her home, she'd let her imagination wander—vivid, heated visions of what might happen when he was older. Her hands had sought relief under the covers more than once, fueled by those forbidden daydreams. Now, faced with his blunt proposal, her heart thudded so loud she swore he could hear it.
She swallowed hard, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Yes," she blurted, the word escaping before she could rein it in. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, knuckles whitening. "I… I mean, yes. When you're older, of course."
Andrew nodded, his expression unchanging, as if he'd expected nothing less.
Andrew observed Lucy with a keen eye, her flustered state a map of raw emotion laid bare before him. Her flushed cheeks, the way her fingers twitched on her lap—he saw the storm raging beneath her skin. At fifteen, she was a bundle of restless energy, hormones carving wild paths through her thoughts. He understood the power he held, even at five years old, with a mind far beyond his years. The temptation lingered, sharp and vivid, to push boundaries now, to see her unravel at his touch. But he held back. His gaze hardened with resolve. There were bigger plays to make, pieces to move on a broader board.
He stepped back, giving her space, his small hands clasped behind his back. "We've got time, Lucy. I ain't rushing this. Just know my word stands."
Her nod was quick, almost frantic, as if she feared her voice would betray her again. She rose, smoothing her hands down her tunic, avoiding his eyes. "I… I should get back to training. I'll see you soon."
The door creaked as she slipped out, leaving a charged silence in her wake. Andrew stood still, his mind already shifting to the next target. Lucy was a step, a vital one, but not the only one. His aunt Amara had been circling him like a playful predator, her teasing a game he intended to turn on its head.
Days later, Eva was out tending to errands in the bustling market, her laughter a faint echo down the dirt path as she left. The house settled into a lazy quiet, broken only by the rustle of leaves outside. Andrew sat on the rough wooden stool in the cramped living space, his eyes tracking Amara as she flitted about, her energy a stark contrast to the stillness. At 1.55 meters, she mirrored Eva's striking looks, her curvy frame wrapped in a loose, colorful skirt that swayed with each exaggerated step. She caught his gaze and grinned, a mischievous spark igniting in her dark eyes.
As she bent to pick up a stray cloth from the floor, her skirt rode up, deliberate and brazen, offering a flash of what lay beneath. Andrew's face remained stone, betraying nothing, even as his pulse quickened with calculated intent. She straightened, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her laughter bubbling up like a stream.
"You're too serious for a little guy, y'know that?" Her voice dripped with playful taunt, her hips cocked to one side. "What's got you so deep in thought?"
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his small frame somehow looming with authority. "Amara, let's cut the games. You keep showing off, thinking it's funny. I'm asking straight—do you want kids one day?"
Her laughter faltered, replaced by a curious tilt of her head. She crossed her arms, the grin still lingering. "Sure I do. Why's a kid like you asking about that?"
His eyes locked on hers, unyielding, a steel edge to his childish voice. "When I'm old enough, I'll spread those legs myself. I'll take you until you're carrying my child. But hear this—if you say yes, you sleep with no one else. Only me."
The air thickened, her playful facade cracking as her jaw dropped. A flush crept up her neck, her hands tightening on her arms. For a moment, she stood rooted, her breath shallow, processing the weight of his words. Then, her lips curled into a shaky smile, though her eyes held something deeper, something rattled.
"You've got some guts, little man. We'll see what happens when you're grown." Her voice wavered, but she spun on her heel, busying herself with a stack of dishes, her movements jerky.
Andrew's gaze lingered on Amara as she fussed over the dishes, her back to him, shoulders tense under the weight of his words. The air in the small room buzzed with unspoken tension, thick as the humid heat outside. He shifted on the wooden stool, his small hands gripping its edge, grounding himself. He needed to draw a line, keep this under control.
"Amara," he called, his voice low, carrying a gravity that didn't match his childish frame. "Don't breathe a word of this to Eva. She'd lose it on both of us. You know how she gets."
She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes wide for a split second before narrowing with a forced smirk. Her hands paused on a clay pot, suds dripping onto the rough counter. "Don't worry, little man. My lips are sealed. Wouldn't want your mama tearing into me over your big talk."
He nodded once, sharp and decisive, but a flicker of something raw and reckless burned in his chest. He opened his mouth, the urge to push further clawing at him—to tell her that come bedtime, if she dared tease him again with a glimpse of her pussy, he'd make her regret it in ways she couldn't imagine. The words formed, hot and jagged on his tongue, promising a reckoning she'd beg to escape from. But he clamped down hard, jaw tight. No. Too far. Even for him, a five-year-old spitting something so visceral would shatter the game entirely. He wasn't ready to tip that balance. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned back, letting the silence settle like dust after a storm. Amara resumed scrubbing, her movements quick now, almost frantic, as if she could wash away the weight of his stare. He watched her a moment longer, then slid off the stool, bare feet scuffing the packed dirt floor. Enough of this. There were more pressing battles to fight—ones within himself.
He padded to the corner of the room where a thin mat lay, his space for cultivation. The faint scent of dried herbs and earth clung to the air as he dropped cross-legged onto the rough weave. His small frame straightened, spine like a blade, as he closed his eyes. Cultivation wasn't just a path to power; it was his anchor, the forge where he hammered out his resolve. Bone forging had already reshaped him, each session a brutal grind of pain and grit, but he was far from done. His body hummed with potential, a coiled spring waiting to unleash.
Breaths came slow, deliberate, pulling energy from the world around him. The ache in his bones flared—a dull throb at first, then sharper, like knives carving into marrow. He welcomed it. Pain was a teacher, a marker of growth. His mind drifted briefly to Amara, to the day he'd be more than just a child in her eyes. With a body forged like iron through cultivation, he'd overwhelm her, no doubt. She'd bend under his strength, her taunts replaced by gasps. But that was a distant fire. Now, he had to build the foundation.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temple as he pushed deeper into the process. His bones creaked under the strain, hardening further, each pulse of energy a brick in the wall of his future. The room faded—Amara's clattering dishes, the murmur of the village outside—all of it drowned by the roar of his focus. He was a cultivator, level two aptitude or not, and nothing would stall his climb. Not family, not temptation, not even the limits of his own small body.