At the edge of a village, in the middle of a vast field, a young child lay sprawled on a bed of hay, his small frame nestled in the uneven straw.
Black hair tumbled all over his face, with his cheek resting on one arm as if the very depths of his dream had woven a spell, binding him in a quiet embrace.
Black hair tumbled all over his face, his cheek resting heavy on one arm and lips parted with a silvery thread of saliva slipping loose, as if the very depths of his dream had woven a spell, binding him in a quiet embrace.
The sky was streaked with deep hues of crimson and gold as the sun sank slowly behind the distant, snowy peaks. The air was still, save for the faint rustling of the grass, stirred by the now-chilly breeze, a sign that it was time for the cold cicada's mournful song.
The child's features were soft and ambiguous, his wide lashes and slightly rounded cheeks making it impossible to tell if he was a boy or a girl.
But the faint smudge of dirt on his chin and the loose thread on his simple black tunic suggested he'd been up to some mischief earlier in the day, even though his face now wore an expression of untroubled peace.
Suddenly, a sound broke the silence-a rhythmic crunch of footsteps approaching from the old dirt path. The child's eyes slowly snapped open, dark and wide like two polished gemstones.
He blinked groggily, sitting up with an almost exaggerated stretch, his hair sticking out at odd angles. He rubbed one eye and squinted the other at the figure walking toward him, hidden by the last rays of golden daylight.
"Heian," called a low, steady voice. The figure stepped closer, revealing the familiar face of Luo Zhen, the tall young man who often scolded the little troublemaker with no hope of redemption. He stopped a few paces away, his hands on his hips and with an expression full of exasperation.
"There you are," Luo Zhen said. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you?"
Jian Heian tilted his head, shrugging at him while smiling. "Not very long, maybe?"
Slightly dumbfounded by the boy's audacity, Luo Zhen exhaled a sigh as familiar as the evening breeze rustling through the hayfield. "The leader sent me to fetch your ass for tonight's sword troupe gathering. He has something to say to everyone about our incoming performance."
Jian Heian's face crumpled like a stepped-on paper lantern, his fingers knitting together, similar to a plea that had not worked since immemorial times. "Does he still have smoke coming out of his ears about earlier?" The question floated on a hopeful lilt, though they both knew the answer.
Luo Zhen folded his arms across his chest, his brow raised, as he looked at him with a mocking gaze. "When you sneak off with practice swords like a magpie stealing jewelry, then vanish when he calls? His anger's got roots deeper than the oldest bamboo now, you know?"
With a sigh that fluttered the hair hanging over his eyes, the child swung his legs off the hay pile and hopped down, wobbling for a moment before regaining his balance. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, taking slow, shuffling steps behind Luo Zhen as they turned back toward the path the young man came from.
"Do I gotta go?" Jian Heian muttered, kicking at a pebble as they walked. "He'll just yap on about posture and discipline and-"
"Yes," Luo Zhen cut in, the single syllable sharp as a whetstone. "And every second you waste is another log on the pyre of his patience."
Heian's answering sigh could have wilted flowers. But even as his shoulders slumped in defeat, his gaze already soared past the path, past the treeline, to where the first small, milky white stars pricked through the indigo veil of the night.
"Brother Zhen..." The wonder in his voice was a living thing, trembling like a newborn fawn. "Do you think if we practice hard enough... really, really hard... we could ever fly on swords like the immortals? Just... slice through the clouds like they were nothing?"
Luo Zhen raised a brow again but didn't slow his stride while cracking a small laugh. "You? You can't even balance on a haystack without falling off, as I just saw."
He ruffled Heian's hair, sending his black strands dancing like ink brushed across parchment. "First, master holding a sword without dropping it, and eat your vegetables. Then we'll talk about conquering The Heavens."
And, as the two of them bickered back and forth, the campfire's glow came into view as they neared the sword troupe's tents, the warm light spilling across the surrounding ground.
Heian's steps faltered, his once high voice fading into reluctant silence. The camp felt suffocatingly stiff, its air heavy with an unspoken tension, and at the center stood Wang Hui, his stillness more commanding than any shout.
"Finally, everyone is here," he announced, his voice steady yet edged with a tension that silenced all murmurs.
As his words hung in the air, his eyes, sharp and dark as forge coals, lingered on Jian Heian just long enough to make the boy's toes curl in his worn black shoes.
"This night is unlike any other. The performance ahead is not just a display of our skill—it will determine our fate." His voice rolled through the gathered troupe like distant thunder. "We stand before a rare chance to display our craft to some esteemed cultivators. Their favor could secure our livelihood for years, but, at the same time, their wrath could mean our troupe's swift end."
The lanterns seemed to hold their breath, their flames bending toward Wang Hui's words. Yet Heian's attention had already drifted like a leaf upon a slow-moving current, soaring past the tents, past the fire's glow, to where the Heavens spilled across the sky like a shattered necklace of pearls.
How small the world seemed beneath such boundless wonder.
How small their worries seemed beneath that infinite dark.
How much he wished to be a cultivator-an immortal, an existence elevated, untouchable, and free from the mundane world.
How glorious it would be to rise above it all-to feel a sword hum beneath his feet, to ride the wind itself...
Alas, a sharp voice cut through his reverie. "Jian Heian!" Wang Hui's patience had run thin, his voice now just like a blade of ice. "Are you even listening?"
But before Jian Heian could even summon a response, soft chuckles rippled through the tense air, quickly swallowed by the weight of Wang Hui's glare.
And, Luo Zhen, standing just beside him, reached out and flicked his forehead with casual ease. "Daydreaming as always, are we?" he teased, though the warning in his tone was clear for the first time in a while.
Hearing this, Heian blinked, his trance broken. He shot Luo Zhen an indignant scowl while rubbing at the spot where he'd been flicked.
"I was listening," he mumbled, though the lie was as convincing as a three-legged horse and flimsy as the loose straw still clinging to his tunic.
Wang Hui's jaw worked like he was chewing stones. "Since SOMEONE missed my words," he ground out, "let me carve them into your skull. Children, take care of the swords. The rest of you folks prepare the stage. Move like your lives depend on it, because tonight?"
"They just might."