Since Mo Tian's arrival, the atmosphere in the Jian family's small home had slowly begun to change. Not in a bad way—quite the opposite. The house that was once filled only with Daji's cheerful voice and Tang Wu's occasional scolding now felt more alive. There was added laughter, new footsteps, and a presence that made everything feel... complete.
Early in the morning, while mist still hung over the front yard and dew clung to the leaves, the kitchen was already filled with the aroma of warm cooking. As usual, Tang Wu was busy with his spatula and wok. But this time, there was an extra pair of clumsy hands—Mo Tian, wearing a serious expression, was awkwardly trying to chop carrots.
"Don't cut it like that! Are you making a salad or a weapon?!" Tang Wu snapped, half frustrated, as he swiftly snatched the knife from Mo Tian's hand.
"I was just trying to help…" Mo Tian sighed deeply.
"If you want to help, go wash the dishes. Cooking needs soul, Master! Not just cutting things up!"
Their voices echoed into the living room, where Daji and Leon sat side by side reading a bamboo scroll about the legend of the Sky Swordsman. Daji, eyes sparkling, would occasionally ask questions about the story. Leon answered seriously, like a true teacher.
Not far from them, Jian Mo sat on the porch, gazing at the slowly changing sky. The laughter and warmth from inside the house reached his ears. He remained still, savoring the simple moment that felt so rare. His heart felt more at peace than it had in a long time.
Days passed quietly. Mo Tian, though more accustomed to the world of cultivation and martial arts, gradually adapted to a simpler life. He learned how to cook rice, sweep the yard, and even followed Tang Wu to the market—though he often returned with odd items that left Tang Wu shaking his head and grumbling.
"Why did you buy three scrolls of talisman paper? Are we cooking or exorcising spirits?" Tang Wu complained one day.
"They were on sale. Buy three, get one free," Mo Tian replied calmly. "And who knows, they might come in handy."
Daji and Leon grew closer as well. They learned to write together, drew pictures, and sometimes played beneath the plum tree in the yard. Their laughter became music that filled the once-empty spaces in the house.
That afternoon, as the sun began to dip into the western horizon and the sky turned orange, Daji ran up to her father with a face full of excitement. In her hands was a small piece of calligraphy.
"Daddy, look! I wrote this myself. My name and yours!" she said proudly.
Jian Mo accepted the scroll. He read it slowly. The writing was still messy, with many uneven strokes, but it held sincerity, love, and the determined effort of a little hand.
"It's beautiful," he said briefly.
Yet his smile couldn't be hidden.
That night, they ate dinner together, shared light banter, and spent the evening like a real family. There was no tension, no burdens from the past—only warmth, and new hope.
The house had once been a refuge from pain. But now, it was starting to feel like a true home. And though the future still held many uncertainties, for now... they had a peace that was quietly beautiful.