"Get up"
The first thing Shenyan felt was… irritation.
A voice, familiar and smug, was talking beside him.
"So, you finally decided to wake up? About time. I was starting to think you were doing this on purpose."
Shenyan groaned. His head felt heavy, and his body was stiff like he had been lying down for too long. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, only to be greeted by the sight of a man lounging lazily beside his bed, twirling a jade ring between his fingers.
Mo Yuren.
Of course, it was him.
Shenyan let out a raspy breath. "...What are you talking about?"
Yuren leaned forward, grinning. "Oh, you know. First, you disappear for three days. Then, when they finally find you, you decide to sleep for another seven. Ten days, Shenyan. Ten! Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to convince them not to declare you dead?"
Shenyan's brain stuttered. "…Ten days?"
Yuren gave a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Honestly, if you wanted a long break from all the lectures about how useless you are, you could've just said so."
Shenyan sat up abruptly. "Wait—ten days?!"
Yuren smirked. "Oh, now he's awake awake."
Shenyan stared at him in horror. His birthday banquet—his family—his disappearance—ten whole days had passed?!
His head spun.
Yuren, of course, was completely unbothered. "You should've seen the palace. Your father nearly turned the kingdom upside down looking for you. The officials were whispering about omens and curses. One minister even suggested that maybe you had ascended to immortality." He snorted. "As if you of all people would get that lucky."
Shenyan buried his face in his hands. "I hate this."
"I know." Yuren patted his shoulder, tone full of fake sympathy. "But at least now you're awake! That means I don't have to sit here all day pretending to care about your well-being."
Shenyan kicked him.
Yuren dodged effortlessly, laughing.
Shenyan groaned, rubbing his temples. "So, I was out for ten days… and nobody thought to wake me up earlier?"
Mo Yuren scoffed. "Oh, sure. Because shaking you violently and screaming in your ear would've totally worked." He leaned back on his elbows, giving Shenyan a sideways glance. "Seriously, though… what happened that night?"
Shenyan hesitated.
The truth was… he didn't know. He remembered the banquet, the insults, the suffocating weight of expectations. Then, the wind. That unnatural wind, howling like a beast, wrapping around him until—
He swallowed. His head still felt foggy.
"…Nothing," he muttered, slumping back onto the bed. "I don't want to talk about it."
Mo Yuren studied him for a moment before sighing. "Listen. I know what people say about you. And I know it's not easy, being compared to them all the time. But you can't keep letting it get to you."
Shenyan rolled his eyes. "Oh, great advice. Just stop caring, right? Why didn't I think of that?"
"Hey, I'm being serious here." Yuren flicked his forehead.
Shenyan scowled and swatted his hand away.
Yuren shrugged. "Alright, fine. Let me put it this way. I once heard a story. About a man from a faraway land."
Shenyan, unimpressed, gave him a skeptical look. "Oh, here we go."
"No, really," Yuren continued. "Where he came from, some people were born with special abilities. They called them hunters. And this guy? Well… he did have a power, but it was so weak that everyone called him the Weakest Hunter of All Mankind."
Shenyan snorted. "Sounds familiar. So much like me."
"Right?" Yuren grinned. "Thing is, he didn't really care what people thought. He was just trying to survive. He wasn't the strongest, the smartest, or even the bravest. But he kept going. And one day… something changed."
Shenyan raised a brow. "Let me guess. He miraculously became strong overnight?"
Yuren smirked. "More or less. But that's not the point. The point is, people laughed at him. Mocked him. But when his moment came, he shut them all up."
Shenyan stared at the ceiling. "…So, what? You're saying I should wait for some miracle to suddenly make me powerful?"
Yuren tapped his chin. "I'm saying, maybe you should stop worrying about what people expect you to be… and start figuring out who you actually are."
Shenyan scoffed. "That's deep, old Mo. Very wise. Did you steal that from a book?"
Yuren grinned. "Maybe."
Shenyan sighed. He didn't want to admit it, but something about that story stuck with him.
Weakest hunter of all mankind, huh?
He closed his eyes. If only real life worked like a story.
They continued talking and somehow the discussion shifted to something more lighthearted. They went back and forth with the banter until breakfast was brought to Shenyan's chamber.
Breakfast was simple but warm. The scent of freshly steamed buns and spiced broth filled the room as Shenyan and Mo Yuren ate together.
"You know," Yuren said between bites, "it wouldn't kill you to eat slower. You look like you've been starving for ten days."
Shenyan shot him a glare. "Oh, very funny."
Yuren just smirked and took another bite. The meal passed with light conversation, Yuren occasionally throwing in some teasing remarks, and Shenyan responding with half-hearted grumbles. But eventually, Yuren stood, stretching.
"Well, as much as I enjoy watching you sulk, I should get going. I have real patients to tend to."
Shenyan rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, go pretend to be a respectable healer."
Yuren grinned, giving him a mock bow. "Jade healer at your service, Young Master Shenyan."
And just like that, Shenyan was alone again.
Silence settled over the chamber.
He let out a slow breath and leaned against the window frame. The sun was bright today, its golden rays stretching lazily across the garden below. The world had moved on while he was unconscious, and yet, he felt frozen in time.
What happened in that forest?
His fingers curled around the windowsill. No matter how much he tried to push it aside, the unease clawed at him. Ten days lost. No memory.
No. He shook his head. I need to stop thinking about it.
He turned to the small wooden stand in the corner of his room. A brush. A fresh sheet of parchment.
Painting. That would help.
It was something he had always found solace in. While others were drawn to the sword or cultivation, he had always been drawn to ink and color. Or maybe he had no choice.
Dipping his brush into the inkwell, he let his hand move freely, sweeping soft strokes across the parchment. He didn't think. He simply painted.
But as the image formed, his breath caught.
Dark trees. A sky choked with swirling clouds. The shadow of something unseen lurking beyond the mist.
The forest.
The very place he was trying to forget.
Shenyan dropped the brush with a sharp clack against the table.
His chest felt tight as he stared at the painting—his painting. His hand had moved on its own, as if something deep inside him remembered, even if his mind refused to.
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Of all the things…"
He pushed the painting away and turned his gaze toward the window again, but the image burned behind his eyelids.
Something happened in that forest.
Something he wasn't supposed to forget.
Shenyan let out a long sigh and pushed himself onto the bed. Maybe if he slept, everything would feel less suffocating. Maybe when he woke up, the nagging frustration in his chest would ease.
But sleep didn't come easily.
Instead, his mind wandered.
What would it be like…
To be the strongest cultivator to ever exist?
To surpass his father's countless victories? To outshine his brother, the so-called prodigy of their clan? To shut the mouths of those who sneered at him, called him useless, treated him like a stain on the family name?
A bitter chuckle left his lips.
It wasn't his fault. None of this was.
From birth, he had been weak. His mother nearly lost her life bringing him into the world, and in turn, he had barely clung to his own. The physicians warned that his body was fragile, that the strain of cultivation would break him.
His father had forbidden him from even attempting it. No training. No sparring. No techniques.
And now, that same father stood among those who ridiculed him.
Shenyan clenched his fists against the sheets. Would he ever get a miracle?
Like the man from the faraway land?
Just as the thought crossed his mind—
A voice, smooth as silk, whispered in the darkness.
"Do you want a miracle?"