Wandao 002
Night fell like ink, shrouding Niupu Village in hushed silence. Within the wooden house of the Wan family, the only light came from a flickering candle set atop the charcoal brazier. Its wavering glow cast shifting shadows across Wan Xiaochuan's face, revealing a complex expression etched between his brows.
He sat at the table, his gaze drifting now and then toward his father, Wan Liqiao. The elder wore a plain blue robe, his features weathered and dignified, bearing a quiet heaviness and the stern gravity of one who had seen too much. Upon the table were a few simple dishes: the vibrant green of stir-fried wild herbs, the savory scent of roasted spirit trout, and a bowl of steaming rice porridge. Wan Xiaochuan lightly traced the rim of his bowl with his fingers, but his heart felt leaden.
"Xiaochuan, have you encountered any bottlenecks in your cultivation these past years?" Wan Liqiao's voice was low, but carried a thread of expectation.
Wan Xiaochuan lowered his gaze, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the wooden table. "The spiritual energy refuses to flow smoothly. My dantian aches often, as if something blocks the channels."
Wan Liqiao gave a solemn nod, a flash of severity crossing his eyes. "That is both a trial of constitution and of heart. Pain such as this is a necessary gate on the path of cultivation."
He paused, his voice darkening. "Xiaochuan, there has been unease in our household. Be wary. In this world, enemies do not always reveal themselves in battle. Some undercurrents churn in silence, unseen and more treacherous."
Wan Xiaochuan looked up, pupils narrowing, as if the weight of some invisible pressure had just settled onto his shoulders.
"Father... who is it that works against us in the shadows?" he asked softly, a ripple of turmoil beneath his calm.
Wan Liqiao's expression grew grim. "Your mother, Zeng Lihui, and your sister, Yazhen—they appear gentle and kind, but beneath the surface they harbor ambitions. For years, they've coveted our family's treasures and cultivation secrets."
A tightness seized Wan Xiaochuan's throat. His chopsticks quivered in his hand. His lips pressed into a line, and within him swirled a storm of emotion—familiar affection twisted by disappointment and rising wariness.
"This makes it even clearer—strength is the only true shield," he whispered inwardly, eyes hardening with resolve.
As the two men spoke, the fire in the brazier flared higher, painting their faces crimson with its glow. It was a fire that illuminated not only their features, but the long and hidden hardships of the cultivation road ahead.
A breeze stole into the room through the cracks of the window lattice, rustling a paper fan and bringing with it a faint chill. Wan Xiaochuan drew a slow breath, turning his father's words over and over in his mind.
He knew now—this path would not be smooth. The knots of blood and kin were only the beginning. Far greater trials lay in wait beyond.
The next morning, as light broke over the horizon, Wan Xiaochuan stood by the creek outside the village, clutching the talisman his father had handed him the night before.
The water ran cold, reflecting the dawn and his own gradually firming expression. The wind-and-thunder sigils on the talisman pulsed faintly, as if harboring a boundless force within.
He pressed it to his brow. His divine sense stirred. In the silence, he felt a resonance—wind and thunder interweaving in his heart. A flame rose from within, not of fire, but of intent. This was the beginning of his cultivation, and the turning point of his fate.
With resolute steps and clear eyes, he walked into the unknown path of the Immortal Way, ready to meet the storms and glory that lay ahead.