Tang San's first moments in this world passed without meaning.
Warm arms.
Soft cloth.
Dim lantern glow.
Murmured voices he couldn't understand.
That was all.
His senses were weak.
His body was small.
His awareness faint—little more than instinct and comfort.
Someone cried nearby. A soft, higher sound, not from pain but surprise.
A tiny child, held in his mother's lap, leaned close and stared at the newborn with round, blinking eyes.
The girl couldn't talk yet; she babbled nonsense and reached out with clumsy fingers.
Their mother laughed softly.
"Easy, Tenten… gently."
The toddler's hand brushed his blanket, and Tang San's world shifted slightly—new warmth, new pressure, new smell.
He did not understand.
He simply existed, wrapped in the rhythm of breathing and heartbeats around him.
And time moved on.
The early years of a child's life blur together.
Days of being carried.
Nights of soft humming.
The clink of tools from his father's workshop.
Tenten's uneven steps as she learned to walk, her giggles echoing through the wooden halls.
Tang San absorbed everything silently.
He didn't cry often.
He didn't fuss.
He watched.
His parents whispered more than once that he was unusually calm, always looking at things with steady focus.
As Tenten grew older, her words formed. Simple ones at first—mostly his name, shouted with excitement.
"San!"
"Look!"
"Play!"
Usually followed by her tripping over her own feet or showing him some treasure she found—a leaf, a pebble, a wooden spoon she wasn't supposed to touch.
She was only a year older, but she lived loudly.
Tang San followed quietly behind her, never far, as if the small girl occupied a space in his life he instinctively accepted.
Before he reached four, nothing unusual stirred inside him.
No memories flashed.
No strange sensations rippled through his body.
No instincts or techniques resurfaced.
He simply learned the world like any child: the warmth of sunlight on the floor, the rhythm of his father hammering metal in the workshop, Tenten's laughter—the brightest sound in the house.
He practiced with brush and ink, tried not to spill too much, and listened to the creaking floorboards as his mother moved through the halls.
He did small things that puzzled adults—folding paper with neat edges, gripping tools with natural balance—but no one thought deeply about it.
He was just a bright child, quiet but attentive.
Nothing more.
His fourth birthday came and went without celebration. The Tang Clan didn't have the means or the habit for such things.
But Tenten, now five and very proud of it, insisted on giving him a gift.
She carved something from scrap wood—crooked, uneven, vaguely shaped like a star. Her fingers were still small, her knife unsteady, but she worked with fierce determination.
She ran up to him that evening, practically bouncing with excitement.
"San! Look! I made this for you!"
She thrust it toward him with a grin almost too big for her face.
He accepted it carefully.
"…Thank you."
Tenten puffed out her cheeks, pleased.
"You're welcome! It's supposed to be a throwing star. Father won't let me use real ones yet, so I made one myself. I hope you like it!"
Her words spilled out quickly, tumbling over one another the way only a child eager to be appreciated could speak.
Their parents exchanged a warm look, quietly amused and touched by the scene.
That night, after dinner, the small household settled in.
Tenten fell asleep first, slumped over their mother's lap.
His father extinguished the lanterns one by one.
Soft breaths filled the room.
Tang San lay in his small futon, staring into the dimness.
His mind drifted—simple thoughts, floating like passing clouds.
Then—
A faint pulse stirred within him.
Not in his body.
Not in the air.
Somewhere deeper.
A single thread of clarity.
A spark.
A flicker.
A memory not tied to this life brushed the edge of his consciousness.
A silhouette against moonlight—
The feel of metal between fingers—
A distant whisper of a name—
…Tang San.
His breath caught.
He didn't sit up.
He didn't cry out.
He didn't understand.
It was only a moment, small and fleeting.
But when it passed, something subtle lingered—a shadow of familiarity behind his eyes, a whisper he couldn't grasp.
He closed his eyes slowly.
Sleep came late.
The next morning, the house looked the same.
Tenten tugged him outside to play.
His mother kneaded dough in the kitchen.
His father hammered metal, sparks flying in steady rhythm.
Everything was familiar.
Yet Tang San felt slightly different—not changed, not transformed, but… aware.
His gaze followed movements more precisely.
His fingers traced objects with unconscious care.
His thoughts brushed against the edges of techniques he couldn't name.
Just the beginning.
A tiny ripple in a still pond.
But enough to mark the quiet start of a life awakening—
not loudly, not dramatically,
just naturally,
as a soul older than this world slowly opened its eyes.
Please inform of any mistakes as I am only one person and this is my first time thank you! 🙏