"Father! Wake up, you promised to take me flying today!"
The yell tore through the house like a small storm. Jian Wuji skidded into his parents' room, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, and threw himself at the edge of his father's bed.
The bed creaked as Jian Wudi cracked one eye open. His son stood there vibrating with unconcealed energy, violet eyes wide and shining, his black hair still tangled from sleep despite being awake for hours.
"I know," Wudi said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I didn't forget, little one." He sat up slowly, because teasing the boy was half the fun. "Are you finished with your morning chores?"
Wuji nodded excitedly, hair whipping across his face. "I tended the garden and helped mother prepare breakfast!"
From the kitchen, Su Qing's laughter carried through the doorway. She appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a cloth, her cold blue eyes shining with amusement. "It's true, he's been up since before dawn, working like a boy possessed." She glanced at Wuji with a soft smile. "Perhaps you should promise to take him flying more often. He always gets his chores done efficiently on the days you are flying."
Wuji groaned. "Mother—"
"Can we go?" He turned back to his father, hands clasped together. "Please?" Wuji purposefully held out the word like a plea.
Wudi held the boy's gaze. A brief staring match — the kind that Wuji always won, because Wudi always let him.
"An incense stick's time," Wudi said, rising to his full height, his frame filling the doorway as he moved toward the kitchen. "Let me eat first."
The wind hit Wuji's face the moment they cleared the outer walls, and he laughed.
This was what he lived for. The rush of air through his hair, the ground dropping away beneath his feet, the steadiness of his father's hand gripping his shoulder as the sword beneath them danced through the morning sky. Below, the Ironwood Forest spread out like a dark green sea, the ancient trees so dense their canopy looked almost solid.
The forest surrounded this branch of the Jian Clan, one of the five branches that served the renowned main clan — a five-star power in Qi Prefecture. From up here, Wuji could see the branch compound nestled against the forest's eastern edge, small and neat, the training grounds no bigger than his hand.
"Father," Wuji said, leaning forward against the wind. "What sort of beasts live in the forest?"
Wudi adjusted their course, "The outer reaches have Ironback Wolves, they are pack hunters, strong but predictable. Around the riverbeds, you'll find Cinderfang Boars. Ill-tempered, territorial. Their tusks can crack stone." He paused. "Galewind Hawks nest in the upper canopy. They hunt from above — quietly piercing through to sky towards their unknowing prey
"Is that all there is?" Wuji's question hung in the air as his father thought.
"Blackmist Pythons," Wudi said, his tone slightly changing. "They feed on spiritual energy and grow stronger the longer they live. The oldest ones in this forest have reached the Houtian Realm. Nothing beyond that — the spiritual energy in this forest is too thin to support anything higher."
Wuji filed the names away. Ironback Wolves. Cinderfang Boars. Galewind Hawks. Blackmist Pythons. One day, he would face them himself.
"Father," he said, timidly, like he was afraid of the answer. "When will I be able to fly on my own?"
Wudi glanced down. The childlike wonder in his son's voice was rare — Wuji was a serious boy, even at eight, the kind who watched more than he spoke. But up here, with the wind in his face and the world stretched out below, something in him opened.
"Only Xiantian cultivators can fly," Wudi said. "You'll need to persevere through the Martial, Foundation, and Houtian realms before you'll stand on a sword of your own."
"Three whole realms," Wuji murmured, his tone full of both longing and confidence.
"I cannot wait to begin training." The words came out louder than he'd intended, ringing across the treetops and down into the canopy below.
Something answered his cry.
A piercing shriek split the air, and a blur of grey and white exploded from the tree line — a Galewind Hawk! Wings spread wide, talons extended, diving toward them with the speed of an arrow. Its eyes were fixed on Wuji with the cold focus of a predator that had already decided its prey.
Wuji's breath caught. The hawk was enormous up close, its wingspan wider than he was tall, wind screaming off its feathers as it closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Wudi sighed.
"I wish you hadn't shouted."
He didn't draw his sword. He simply extended two fingers, forming them into the shape of a blade, and made a single, casual slash through the air.
The hawk didn't cry out. Its head separated from its body in a clean line, and the two halves tumbled toward the forest below, trailing feathers that caught the light as they fell.
Wuji stared. There had been no flash of qi, no visible technique — just a movement so precise and effortless that the air itself seemed to have done the cutting.
"Well," Wudi said mildly, flicking his wrist. The hawk's body halted mid-fall, reversed course, and vanished into the storage ring on his finger. "I suppose we don't need to worry about lunch."
Wuji looked at his father — the calm expression, the loose posture, the hand that had just killed a beast without a hint of strain — and thought: I want to be that strong.
They flew for another hour, looping wide over the forest's western edge before Wudi turned them back toward the branch compound. As they descended, the guards at the outer gate looked up, recognition and respect crossing their faces. The only Xiantian cultivator in the branch, gliding overhead on his sword — it was a sight that never quite became ordinary.
The guards exchanged glances. Quiet grins.
Inside the branch, Guest Elder Jian Wudi was someone the younger generation looked up to. As the only Xiantian, he could have held himself apart, but instead he gave pointers freely — correcting a disciple's stance here, demonstrating a technique there. He believed a clan could only survive by the strength of its weakest member, and he acted on it.
Wuji looked down at the guards as they landed and felt a quiet warmth in his chest. Pride, simple and uncomplicated, in the respect his father had earned.
"No fair!"
The shout met them at the door. Jian Yuqing stood in the hallway, arms crossed, blue eyes sharp enough to cut. At ten, she was already taller than boys her age, and she had inherited their mother's glare — the kind that could make even an elder look away.
"How come you only ever take Wuji?"
Wudi set his sword against the wall. "Have you made progress in your cultivation technique?"
Yuqing's expression faltered. "I've reached the third level of the Frost Edge technique. But I haven't broken through recently."
"You know the rules, Qing'er. A breakthrough in cultivation or technique. Then we fly."
"It's not fair!" She pointed at Wuji, who was doing his best to be invisible. "He only has to do chores. I'm already at Martial Stage Three — I should be able to go!"
Su Qing appeared behind the children, placing a hand on Yuqing's shoulder. "Wudi. You'll take her at sunset." It was not a question. "She's been working diligently, and she is only ten."
Wudi considered this for exactly one breath. He knew that tone.
"Your arrangement, then." He moved toward the fireplace, pulling the Galewind Hawk from his storage ring to clean and prepare. "Wuji, wash up. We start after lunch."
Yuqing's anger evaporated. "Start what?"
Wuji didn't answer. He was already moving toward the courtyard, his heart hammering.
The afternoon sun hung low and golden over the training yard. Wuji stood across from his father, the shadow of Wudi's frame stretching long across the packed earth.
"Wuji." Wudi's voice was different now — not the warm tone of a father but the measured calm of a swordsman. "Today marks the beginning of your journey with the sword."
He held out both hands, and in them lay a blade.
It was simple. Unadorned. No inscription, no spiritual glow, no rare materials announcing themselves. Just a sword — straight-backed, clean-edged, and new.
"This sword has just been forged," Wudi said. "I won't go into details about the materials. They don't matter." His eyes held Wuji's. "This sword belongs to you now. Take it. Treasure it."
Wuji reached out and wrapped his fingers around the handle.
It fit. Not loosely, not tightly — perfectly, as though the grip had been shaped around the memory of his hand. He lifted it, felt the weight settle into his arm, and took a slow swing. Then another, faster. Then a third, with force behind it. Each one felt more natural than the last, like the sword was learning him as quickly as he was learning it.
Wudi drew his own blade — a sword of deep grey metal that caught the sunlight and held it. When he moved it through the air, the space around the edge seemed to ripple, as though the atmosphere itself was stepping aside.
"This is a swing." Wudi cut a clean horizontal arc. The air split with a soft hiss. "This is a thrust." A straight extension, the point driving forward with controlled power. "You must know these two movements like the back of your hand. Every technique — no matter how complex — is built from these."
He began demonstrating in earnest, his voice steady and unhurried as he broke down the fundamentals: grip, stance, weight transfer, the line of the edge, the angle of the wrist. His blade moved with a fluidity that made it look effortless, each motion flowing into the next without pause or correction.
Wuji watched with rapt attention, his violet eyes tracking the steel as it carved through the late afternoon light.
And somewhere beneath the words and the footwork and the mechanics he was absorbing, he noticed something he couldn't quite name. The way the air moved around his father's sword. Not pushed — directed. As though the blade was telling the air where to split apart and where to converge again.
Like the sword understood something about the world that Wuji didn't. Not yet.
He tightened his grip on his own blade — his blade, from this day forward — and swung.