Daylight had just begun to seep through, and the shadow of the locust tree still pressed across the stone steps. Chen Wuya sat on the edge of a stone stool, his palm against the tabletop as Misaligned Force silently seeped into the earth, slowly traveling along the web of qi he had laid down yesterday. He did not move or open his eyes. His breathing was merely a little deeper, as though he were still dreaming.
When Bai Zhi emerged from the main hall, she carried a stack of folded little clothes in her arms. Her footsteps were soft, but the moment she stepped down from the veranda, Chen Wuya opened his eyes. Their gazes met for an instant. She said nothing, only placed the clothes in the bamboo basket beside the cradle before turning toward the kitchen.
Almost at the same time, a clattering rang out from the other end of the courtyard.
Seven-year-old Chen Xuan was swinging his sword at a wooden post, every movement meticulous, his shoulders and back drawn taut and straight. It was Flowing Cloud Three Turns, the Qingfeng Sect's introductory sword form. It should have been light and nimble as the wind, yet every stroke he made looked like chopping firewood—heavy when it landed, kicking up clouds of dust. Five-year-old Chen Yao stood nearby, twirling a short bamboo staff in her hands, spinning left and hopping right. Its tip traced flashy arcs, yet did not so much as stir a fallen leaf.
Watching them, Chen Wuya's lips slowly curved upward.
He rose and walked up behind them without making a sound. Sensing her father's approach, Chen Xuan immediately stopped, lowered her head, and panted, her forehead drenched in sweat. Chen Yao spun around and bounced in front of him. "Dad, did you see? Was