Something pressed against the door—slow, deliberate, testing the wood grain, learning its shape. The latch rattled once, softly, like a polite knock from something that had never had to knock before.
Lí Zhì's breath caught in his throat.
His grandfather didn't move. He stood perfectly still, cane raised, eyes locked on the door.
"Listen carefully," Lí Shān whispered. "This one is not strong. But it is curious. And curiosity makes it dangerous."
Another whisper seeped through the cracks:
The light… the light… where is the light…?
The warmth in Lí Zhì's chest pulsed uncontrollably. He gripped his shirt, trying to steady the frantic rhythm.
"Grandfather… it's reacting. I can't stop it."
"You don't need to stop it," Lí Shān murmured. "You need to guide it."
Before Lí Zhì could ask how, a thin tendril of shadow slipped under the door—no thicker than a vine, yet unmistakably alive. It wriggled across the floorboards, leaving frost-like patterns wherever it touched.
Lí Zhì instinctively stepped back.
The tendril lifted toward him, swaying gently like a snake tasting the air for heat.
There you are… the bright one…
Lí Zhì's heart pounded. The charm in his hand flared again, emitting a tiny ring of golden light that made the shadow recoil with a hiss.
Lí Shān struck the ground with his cane.
"Enough."
Light shot from the cane's tip, sharp and clean. The shadow tendril jerked backward, retreating under the door—but not fully escaping. It clung to the threshold, shivering, like a creature torn between hunger and fear.
Lí Zhì stared. "Grandfather… you can use light?"
"Only a little. Enough to ward off things like this. But not enough for what is coming."
The shadow outside shifted shape—a smear against the wood, flattening, stretching, trying to mimic something it had seen in another lifetime.
"You cannot hide from him," it whispered. "The Eater seeks what belongs to him…"
Lí Shān's eyes hardened. "Zhì'er. This is your test."
"My… what?"
"You must drive it away. Not destroy it—we are not ready for that. Just push it back."
"I don't know how to fight!"
"You do not need to fight," his grandfather said firmly. "You need to remember."
"Remember what?"
"That the light chose you."
The warmth in Lí Zhì's chest pulsed again—stronger, brighter, almost painful. He exhaled shakily and closed his eyes.
Instead of fear, he tried to think of—
His grandfather's laugh.
The taste of steamed buns fresh from the pot.
The river on summer mornings.
Old Liu telling stories under lantern light.
The feeling of his home.
He held onto those threads of simple, true goodness.
Warmth spread outward, no longer frantic, but steady and intentional.
When Lí Zhì opened his eyes, a faint glow coated his fingers, like dawn trapped beneath his skin.
The shadow at the door recoiled violently, hissing.
"No… no… too bright…" it shrank into a thinner smear. "Not ready… not ready…"
Lí Shān stepped aside. "Zhì'er. Toward the door."
Lí Zhì swallowed dryly, then stepped forward. The glow from his hands brightened with his intent.
The shadow trembled.
The light returns… impossible… impossible…
Lí Zhì raised his hand.
A pulse of gentle radiance flowed outward—not an attack, but a wave of warmth that pushed like a breath of sunrise.
The shadow buckled and tore apart like mist caught in wind.
Within seconds, it vanished entirely.
Silence returned to the room.
Lí Zhì lowered his hand, trembling. "I… I did it."
Lí Shān nodded, pride softening his expression. "Yes. And the world felt it."
Lí Zhì blinked. "The world?"
"The spirits. The immortals. Even the darkness itself." He touched the boy's shoulder. "Now they know the Dawn God's ember lives."
A chill prickled down Lí Zhì's spine. "Is that bad?"
"It means," his grandfather said slowly, "that nothing in this realm or the next will ignore you anymore."
A sharp, shared silence fell.
Outside, the cracked sky's faint shimmer pulsed—once, like an eye opening. The Veil was watching.
And far away, something vast stirred in the dark.