The sky softened as evening settled over Wo Long.
Lanterns were lit one by one in the ancestral yard, their warm glow catching on old wood and new beams alike. The scent of tea and steamed buns drifted through the air, mingling with pine and earth.
For the first time in many years, the ancestral home was full.
Not for mourning.
For living.
The elders gathered first.
Low benches creaked as they sat, backs straightening unconsciously in the familiar space. Conversations began quietly—about weather, about aches, about whose grandson had grown taller than expected.
Soon, the voices overlapped.
Laughter emerged, surprised by itself.
"I remember when this floor leaned," Old Zhang said, tapping his cane lightly."And we leaned with it," another replied.
Someone snorted. "Speak for yourself."
In the yard, children claimed the space without asking.
They ran between the trees, invented rules on the spot, turned smooth stones into treasures and the sandpit into a battlefield of imagination. Their shouts rose and fell like birdsong.
A little girl tripped, scraped her knee.
Before anyone panicked, she stood, brushed it off, and kept running.
The elders smiled at that.
When the noise reached its comfortable peak, the old priest arrived.
He wore simple robes, faded from years of washing, and carried a thin book bound with twine. He did not stand on ceremony—only nodded to the villagers and took his place near the doorway.
When he began to chant, the yard quieted naturally.
The scripture was old.
The cadence uneven.
The voice cracked in places.
But it filled the space perfectly.
Words of continuity.
Of remembrance.
Of returning.
Luke stood near the edge, listening.
He felt no compulsion to bow.
He did anyway.
When the chant ended, silence lingered—not awkward, but full.
Then applause, gentle and scattered.
Grandma Sun stood with effort, leaning on her cane.
"Wo Long hasn't felt this warm in a long time," she said. "And it didn't happen by accident."
Eyes turned.
Luke tried to step back.
Someone stopped him.
"You fixed what we thought was gone," Old Zhang said."You gave us a place to sit again," another added."And a place for the children," a woman said, watching them play.
The priest smiled faintly. "Some people build with wood. Some build with patience."
All eyes rested on Luke.
Luke scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable.
"It was already here," he said. "I just… helped it stand."
The praise did not fade.
It softened.
Settled.
Like soil after rain.
The System flickered, once.
Social Recognition Threshold ReachedAura Effect: Stabilized (Non-dominant)
Luke felt it—not as pressure, but acceptance.
As night deepened, elders drank tea, children slowed, and stories resurfaced—of past winters, of shared labor, of the village before roads and wires.
Luke listened.
He did not interrupt.
This, he realized, was another kind of mission.
One with no points.
No rewards.
No exit.
Just presence.
Under lantern light, in the heart of Wo Long, the gathering continued.
And for the first time in a very long while—
No one felt like they were waiting for something else.