Dawn crept over Willowfern Village in a thin, pale line, pushing away the night like a tired farmer shooing hens from a field. A quiet breeze moved between the wooden homes, lifting dust and the faint smell of cooked grain. Most people were already awake—Willowfern was the kind of place where no one slept late unless they were sick, dead, or cultivating hard enough to forget time existed.
Ren Yulan wasn't doing any of those things.
He was leaning over a small stream behind his family's courtyard, watching his reflection ripple like it was trying to escape him.
Five elemental roots.
Wind. Wood. Fire. Earth. Water.
Most cultivators prayed they'd awaken even two. Three made you a genius. Four meant sects would fight over you.
Five meant trouble.
Not because it was trash. Not because it was heaven-defying.
But because five roots required perfect equilibrium. If one root advanced too fast—even by a handful of minor realms—the entire spiritual flow could twist itself into a painful knot. Most kids with five roots either burned out early, crippled themselves, or never cultivated at all.
Ren Yulan was determined not to become one of those stories whispered to frighten children.
He scooped water in his hands and splashed it over his face. "Balance, balance, balance… same lecture every day," he muttered, straightening up just as a chicken wandered past him with the lazy confidence of a creature that knew it was worth more cooked than alive.
"Don't look at me like that," Yulan told it. "You're breakfast. Not a spirit beast, not a guardian of the heavens. Just breakfast."
The chicken gave a defiant cluck.
Spirit beasts were rare in Willowfern. Livestock didn't cultivate—bloodlines were too shallow, and even if someone tried handing them manuals, they wouldn't understand a single symbol. But animals did gather faint ambient energy, and their meat, milk, eggs, and hides carried small benefits. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to keep villagers healthy and children sturdy.
It was the people with spiritual roots who drew real Qi, and Yulan's five roots meant he needed five different energies every single day. Meditation alone couldn't evenly feed all of them; he needed varied meals, steady breathing patterns, and absolute attention.
A single mistake and one element would surge ahead.
A single surge and the others would have to be force-fed energy to catch up.
A single imbalance too big… and the soul took the hit.
He walked back toward the house, passing his father chopping spiritual grain stalks at the table. The air smelled like warm husks and fresh morning steam.
"Yulan. You're up," his father said without glancing up. "Good. Come eat. You'll need energy before morning cultivation."
"Doesn't feel like it ever ends," Yulan groaned.
"Because it doesn't," his father replied. "Five roots means five times the responsibility. You want a stable future? Cultivate properly."
"Everyone says that."
"Everyone is right."
Yulan slumped at the table. A bowl of grain porridge sat waiting for him, topped with two fried eggs from last week's clutch. Spiritual eggs weren't magical treasures, but they nourished all five elements decently: grain calmed earth, eggs steadied wood and water, and the faint heat from the frying oil helped fire and wind. It wasn't perfect, but it kept his balance smooth enough to train without collapsing.
As he ate, he watched the sunlight shift across the yard. Something tugged at him—a quiet instinct, a faint stirring at the back of his soul. A whisper like a distant drumbeat calling his name.
He froze.
Then it was gone.
His father noticed immediately. "What happened?"
"…nothing," Yulan said quickly, even though he wasn't sure.
It didn't feel like a root imbalance. Those felt sharp and painful, like something tightening inside the spine. This was different. Softer. Older.
He finished his food quickly and went out to the training courtyard. He settled into his breathing pattern, pulling in gentle streams of Qi, guiding each element evenly, slowly, without force.
Wind swirled.
Earth rooted.
Water flowed.
Wood steadied.
Fire warmed.
Everything moved in harmony—until the whisper came again.
A draw. A pull.
As if something beneath the earth was calling to him… or hungry for him.
He opened his eyes instantly.
No tremor.
No animal.
No Qi surge.
Just stillness.
He exhaled hard. "Great. I'm going insane."
But the feeling hadn't been illusion. It had been real… and oddly familiar, like something in his blood had stirred.
Across the courtyard, a chicken pecked at the dirt. It lifted its head, stared at him with an odd tilt, then hurried away.
Even the chicken sensed it.
Yulan straightened his posture, pressing a hand to his chest. "What was that…?"
Whatever it was, he didn't have a name for it yet.
But one thing was certain:
It wasn't normal.
And it wasn't part of the five elements
Yulan forced himself back into his breathing pattern, but his concentration slipped again and again. The whisper wasn't loud—it was more like a subtle vibration inside his chest, an instinctive tug that didn't belong to any of his five roots. The elements had clear signatures. Fire pushed upward. Water cooled. Earth steadied. Wood extended. Wind scattered.
This… wasn't one of them.
After an hour of shaky cultivation, Yulan abandoned the session entirely. There was no point trying to train while feeling like something unseen was tugging at the corner of his soul.
He stretched out his arms and walked to the small storage shed behind the courtyard. Inside, bundles of dried herbs hung from the beams, along with jars of preserved vegetables and a wooden rack of spiritual grain. Chickens clucked lazily outside, scratching at the dirt.
Yulan grabbed the hoe leaning against the wall. If he couldn't cultivate properly right now, he could at least help in the fields. That always made his father happy.
As he stepped outside, his mother waved at him from the vegetable patch.
"Heading out to the east field?"
"Yeah," Yulan said. "Might as well do something useful today."
"Take some water with you," she said, handing him a small gourd. "And don't overexert yourself. If any of your roots tighten unexpectedly—"
"I'll stop immediately," Yulan finished with a sigh. "I know, Mother."
She gave him a warm smile. "I only worry because you're gifted."
"Feels like a burden, not a gift."
"That's what all gifted children say."
He grumbled under his breath but took the gourd anyway. His mother returned to trimming a patch of spiritual greens—vegetables resilient enough to grow even in poor soil, relying on ambient energy for their potency.
He made his way toward the fields behind the village. The path wound between narrow terraces of grain and root vegetables, dotted with livestock pens. Most of the village's animals were simple: sheep, cows, chickens, and a few slow-witted horned boars good only for meat and plowing. None of them cultivated. None of them awakened anything.
That was how it had always been.
Until today.
Halfway down the path, Yulan felt it again—a pulse, faint but unmistakable. It thrummed under the ground like a muffled heartbeat. The same whisper tugged at him again, sharper this time, like a claw scraping lightly along the inside of his chest.
His steps faltered.
"…not my imagination."
He scanned the area. Nothing unusual. Just trees, grass, and the distant croaking of frogs near the small marsh at the field's edge.
Then the ground trembled.
Only once.
Barely noticeable.
A soft jolt, like something underground shifting in its sleep.
Yulan tightened his grip on the hoe. "What now?"
The answer came in the form of a chicken.
One of the older hens—a feisty brown one the villagers jokingly called Old Mistress Peck—suddenly darted out of the bushes, wings flapping wildly. It ran in circles, clucking hysterically, as if trying to escape something.
Yulan blinked. "What's wrong with—"
The hen froze mid-run, feathers puffed, staring at him with wide round eyes.
Then it sprinted directly toward him.
"Wait—hey—why—"
The chicken skidded to a stop in front of him, practically ramming into his leg like a terrified child hiding behind an adult. It pressed itself against him, trembling faintly.
"…A chicken is using me as a shield?" Yulan muttered. "What kind of humiliation arc is this?"
But the hen wasn't joking. She kept glancing at the ground.
At a spot no bigger than a fist, where the earth bulged slightly… then cracked.
Yulan stepped back.
The soil split in a thin line, and a gray, ghostly wisp rose from the crack like steam escaping a pot. It wasn't Qi—not any type he recognized. It was colder, older, vaguely metallic and sour.
The hen let out a choked sound. The feathered creature trembled so hard its beak rattled.
The whisper in Yulan's chest flared, beating once like a second heart.
Then everything stopped.
No wind.
No movement.
No sound.
Yulan exhaled, barely realizing he had been holding his breath.
The crack in the earth sealed itself—just closed like a mouth finishing a sentence.
The wisp vanished.
The ground went still.
Old Mistress Peck wobbled, dazed, then shook violently and stumbled toward the village as fast as her legs would carry her. She didn't look back.
Yulan wiped sweat from his brow. "What was that…?"
The whisper faded. The tug in his chest quieted to a faint buzz, almost like a heartbeat he could ignore if he tried hard enough.
But the memory wouldn't leave.
Nor would the instinctive fear crawling up his spine.
He planted the hoe into the dirt and leaned against it.
"Something is wrong with me," he said softly. "Or something is waking up."
Whatever it was, it wasn't the five elements. And it wasn't normal.
He lifted the hoe again and forced himself toward the fields, trying to shake off the unease.
But as he walked, the whisper curled faintly inside his chest again. Not calling this time.
Waiting.
Watching.
Hungry.
Yulan finally reached the eastern fields, though he wasn't sure how he had walked the last stretch. His mind was still circling the strange event—if "event" was even the right word. A whisper in his chest, an old hen terrified out of her feathers, and the earth cracking for no reason before sealing shut again.
There was no logic to any of it.
He set the hoe on the ground and forced himself to breathe. The valley was peaceful again. The kind of quiet that should've calmed him—the hum of insects, the rustle of leaves, the distant bleating of sheep on the upper terrace.
But the peace felt thin now, like a blanket with a tear stitched across it.
"…just farm," Yulan muttered. "Don't think too much."
He started working the soil, loosening the earth around the grain sprouts—carefully enough not to damage them but quick enough to work through the row before noon. Sweat trickled down his neck. The repetitive motion slowly eased his nerves, the steady scrape of metal against soil grounding him more than meditation had this morning.
Neither the ground nor the air murmured again.
No tremors.
No whispers.
No mysterious cracks.
Just Yulan and the field.
After an hour, his shirt clung to his back, and his arms had gone pleasantly numb. His breath settled. His thoughts dulled. Finally, for a moment, the quiet valley felt normal again.
But Yulan's peace never lasted long.
A faint voice drifted toward him from further down the path. "Yulan! Brother Yulan—wait for me!"
He paused and squinted. A small figure sprinted toward him, kicking up dust with every step. It was Lian, a boy from the neighboring house. Half-child, half-endless energy. The kind of kid who could outrun chickens but still tripped on flat ground.
Lian waved both arms wildly as if trying to fight off invisible insects. "Yulan! I've been looking everywhere for you!"
"You didn't check the fields first?" Yulan called back.
"No!" Lian wheezed. "I checked the river, the market, and your roof!"
"My roof—why—actually, never mind."
The boy finally reached him, hunched over with hands on knees, breathing like he'd escaped from a lake. Yulan handed him the water gourd.
Lian gulped it down without a thank-you, then coughed. "The chicken was running around screaming."
Yulan froze. Old Mistress Peck.
He should've expected the village to notice.
"Did anyone else see it?" he asked.
"Only me," Lian said. "Everyone else was busy with the morning rounds. But the way she was flapping—like she saw a ghost or a snake or like—like—"
Yulan waited.
"—like she offended the heavens," Lian finished in awe.
Yulan rubbed his forehead. "It wasn't that serious."
"You didn't see her face!" Lian insisted. "Her eyes were huge! She ran into Aunt Mei's fence and bounced off like a sack of potatoes."
"…I did see her face," Yulan admitted quietly.
Lian leaned closer. "Then something did happen."
Yulan didn't answer.
The boy's eyes widened. "Yulan. You look weird. Did something happen to you?"
Yulan was a quiet person by nature, but he knew better than to tell a child about strange whispers in the soul or cracks in the earth. He'd end up with ten rumors before sunset: Yulan controlled the ground, Yulan scared chickens with his mind, Yulan was blessed, Yulan was cursed, Yulan opened a portal—something ridiculous like that.
So he shook his head. "Just tired."
Lian didn't buy it, but he also didn't push. Instead, he plopped onto the ground like a sack of grain and pulled out a small basket.
"Mother told me to bring you food," he said proudly.
Yulan blinked. "Why?"
"Because you forget to eat when you're thinking too hard," Lian replied. "She says a cultivator with an empty stomach is just a skinny farmer with pretty breathing."
Yulan snorted despite himself. "…your mother gives good advice."
Inside the basket, warm steam rose from two spirit-grain buns and a small roasted drumstick. The sight alone reminded Yulan he hadn't eaten since dawn.
He took a bun and bit into it. Soft. Slightly sweet. The mild, natural energy of the grain spread gently through his body, coating his five roots with a thin, soothing layer. Nothing overwhelming. Nothing loud. The kind of warmth he grew up with.
The drumstick had a deeper energy, but only mildly stronger—livestock always absorbed a little bit of ambient Qi from their diet and surroundings. Nothing special. Nothing worth writing in any cultivation manual.
Just food.
Just normal.
Normal felt good.
He ate slowly while Lian rambled about the morning gossip: who tripped in the market, who caught a fish bigger than their arm, who fell asleep during class at the small learning hall.
Yulan listened with half an ear and kept his senses open—not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't stop himself. Everything felt slightly sharper today. Not dangerously, but undeniably different.
When he finished eating, he wrapped the basket. "Tell your mother thank you."
"Will you come back with me?" Lian asked. "Or are you staying here longer?"
"I'll finish this row," Yulan said. "Maybe two. Then I'll head back."
"Okay!" Lian jumped to his feet. "If you see that scary chicken again—uh—don't let her chase me."
Yulan cracked a smile. "I'll protect you."
"You promise?"
"Of course."
Satisfied, Lian scampered off, humming a tune, dirt flying with each step.
Yulan watched him disappear around the bend.
Once the boy was gone, the valley became quiet again. Truly quiet.
Yulan planted the hoe in the dirt and stared at his hands.
A faint tremor ran through his fingers.
"…calm down," he whispered. "Just work."
He lifted the hoe.
The whisper inside his chest stirred again—softly, almost lazily. Not threatening. Not painful.
Just present.
Yulan closed his eyes.
Something was changing.
He didn't know what.
He didn't know why.
But it was beginning here—in this quiet valley, beneath his feet, inside his own soul.
For the first time in his life, the valley's peace didn't feel like safety.
It felt like the silence before something woke up.
Yulan worked through the next two rows, but his movements slowly lost rhythm. His body was doing the tasks he'd done a thousand times—dig, loosen, step forward—but his attention kept drifting to the faint hum in his chest. It wasn't growing stronger, but it wasn't fading either. It lingered like a half-remembered melody, impossible to ignore.
By the time the sun neared its peak, Yulan set the hoe down and straightened. His back ached pleasantly from the work, but his mind remained unsteady. He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to shake out his arms.
Maybe he should go home early.
He turned toward the path—only to freeze when he noticed someone standing halfway down it.
A slim figure, arms crossed, watching him quietly.
"…Senior Sister Wen?"
Wen Shuyi was from the same valley, a few years older, already at the 6th minor realm of Qi Gathering. She was considered talented—not a genius, not a prodigy, but definitely promising. She sometimes taught younger kids basics when the village instructor was busy. And she rarely came to this part of the fields unless she was looking for someone.
She approached with even steps, her expression calm but mildly curious. "You weren't at the practice grounds this morning. Master Jian asked me to check where you wandered off to."
Yulan wiped dirt from his hands. "I was working here."
"I can see that." Her eyes drifted over the loosened rows of soil. "You're usually more focused on your morning cultivation than anyone. Something happen?"
He hesitated. "Not exactly."
"Meaning something did happen."
He sighed. Senior Sister Wen's perception was sharp, and she was the type who disliked half-answers.
She glanced around the quiet field. "I heard Old Mistress Peck had a meltdown."
Yulan winced. "Lian talks too fast."
"He talks too much," she corrected. "But this time he wasn't exaggerating. Aunt Mei says the chicken ran headfirst into her laundry pole."
Yulan rubbed his forehead. "It was… strange."
"Strange how?"
He considered his options. He trusted her more than most people in the village, but he didn't want to sound insane. Still, he could tell part of the truth.
"There was a… tremor," he said slowly. "Not a big one. But the ground shook for a moment. That's when the chicken panicked."
Wen Shuyi raised a brow. "A tremor? Here?"
"You can ask Lian. He showed up right after."
"What about you?" Her gaze sharpened. "Did you feel anything else?"
Yulan hesitated again. "…just uneasy."
She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing the honesty of his answer against the twitch in his jaw or the tension in his shoulders.
Finally, she spoke. "The valley didn't report any earth pulses. And natural tremors are extremely rare here." She stepped closer. "Yulan. Are you sure you weren't experiencing a root fluctuation?"
He shook his head firmly. "My roots were completely stable."
"All five?"
"Yes."
She folded her arms, unconvinced but not pushing the issue. "If it happens again, tell Master Jian. Even small anomalies matter."
Yulan nodded.
Wen Shuyi's gaze softened slightly. "You carry too much by yourself. You always have."
"I'm fine."
"That's what people say right before they aren't."
Yulan didn't respond. She let out a quiet breath and brushed some dirt off his sleeve.
"You're sweating too much for someone only working the field."
"I was distracted."
"Distracted by what?"
He almost said a whisper in my chest but bit back the words. Instead:
"Just thinking."
"Thinking can wait. Food can't." She held out a small cloth bundle he hadn't noticed she was carrying. "Your mother asked me to bring this. Lunch."
He blinked. "Lian already brought me food."
"That was a snack," she said flatly. "This is lunch."
He fought the urge to groan. "You too?"
"Eat it."
Yulan opened the cloth. Inside were a small bowl of steamed spiritual greens, a warm bun, and a sliver of smoked meat. The familiar scent eased him. He sat on a stone at the field edge and ate quietly while Wen Shuyi stood watch like a very responsible soldier making sure he didn't escape.
When he finished, she finally relaxed.
"Good. Now walk back with me."
Yulan frowned. "I was going to finish one more row."
"No. You need rest."
"I'm not sick."
"I didn't say you were," she replied, then tapped his forehead lightly. "But something is off with you today. And working yourself into the dirt doesn't solve that."
He couldn't argue. Mostly because she was right.
With a reluctant sigh, he gathered his tools and followed her toward the village.
The path home was quiet, the breeze light, the valley beautiful in its familiar way. But Yulan felt the difference inside him—like a faint pressure behind every heartbeat. It didn't hurt. But it was undeniably there.
Halfway back, Wen Shuyi spoke again.
"Yulan."
"Mm?"
"If anything happens again—anything strange—you tell me. Understand?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
She didn't seem satisfied with the half-hearted answer, but she let it go.
The village came into view a few minutes later—warm, lively, peaceful.
Yulan paused without meaning to.
The whisper inside his chest curled faintly again, like a creature shifting in its sleep.
"…something is coming," he thought.
He didn't know whether it was a blessing, a curse, or something in between.
But it had awakened.
And it began today.