The sky had yet to fully lighten when Yuhao's eyes opened. The world beyond the wooden shutters remained dark and still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves brushing against the house's outer wall.
He lay there for a while—listening.
There were no footsteps, no creaks beyond the natural groan of old wood. Yun'er slept in the adjoining room. Her breathing was steady. Slower than usual. Peaceful. A good sign.
Yuhao shifted the quilt off slowly and sat up. The floor was cool, rough underfoot, but he moved with silent familiarity. His routine began the same way every day: cold water splashed on the face from the basin near the window, then a damp cloth to wipe down his arms, neck, and chest. His clothes—a plain linen shirt and trousers—hung neatly on a hook by the door. He dressed quickly, fastening the belt with his own simple knot.
He looked at the hanging pouch of herbs and coin at his side—intentionally thin, never full. He carried his wealth elsewhere, where eyes couldn't see.
The morning was young, and the market wouldn't open for another hour. That suited him. He needed the time.
---
He stepped outside.
Mist still clung to the grass. The cottage sat on the edge of a low hill, not isolated, but distant enough from the town to offer quiet. Trees lined the western slope, and beyond that—just faintly—was the main road that led toward the Tang Sect and the capital's direction.
But Yuhao had no plans to approach the sect yet.
He wasn't ready. Not in the way they'd expect. His goals had nothing to do with the stage or glory they pursued.
He had his own path.
And it started with the stillness of a new day.
---
He walked to the field behind the cottage.
It was a small patch of land, half overgrown, with only some cleared space for movement. To any passerby, it looked like a child's practice yard—a place to swing a stick or run in circles. That suited him just fine.
He sat cross-legged near the western tree.
Facing east.
Waiting for the light.
The first hue of dawn appeared slowly. Not golden. Not white. But soft, faintly purple—an almost imperceptible tint that faded upward as the sky warmed.
Yuhao watched it. Not with his eyes, but with his spirit.
The ancient cultivation texts he'd read as a child, combined with his own reconstructed internal pathway model, confirmed it: the "first light" of each day contained trace amounts of what older cultivators called life resonance energy—neutral in nature, but drawn to intention.
He kept his back straight, eyes half-closed.
Breath in—four counts.
Hold—two counts.
Release—six counts.
Repeat.
The rhythm aligned not with his heartbeat, but with the slow draw of spirit energy cycling through his body. At first, nothing happened. But gradually, with discipline, came the stillness—and then the faint flicker of warmth in his solar plexus.
It was small. Not even visible if one used Spirit Detection. But it was there.
It was always there.
---
He rose half an hour later.
His body hadn't moved during meditation, but internally, it had shifted significantly. Spirit energy had flowed smoother, and his projection-based circulation technique had adjusted slightly around his left kidney and the inner thigh meridian—precisely the area he'd felt resistance in the night before.
He drew a small journal from a hidden pouch beneath the porch, flipped to a fresh page, and made three notes:
Dawn intake smoother today
Secondary meridian resistance reduced by 8%
Try stabilizing breath shift after 12th cycle tomorrow
He replaced the journal, hid it again, and went inside.
Yun'er would be waking soon.
---
Back in the kitchen, he stoked the embers from the night's fire and added fresh twigs and split logs. The fire came to life quickly, its warmth pushing out the morning chill.
He retrieved a small pot and filled it halfway with water. Into it, he placed a mixture of rice and crushed millet, followed by a pinch of ground wolfberry root. It was subtle—barely noticeable—but added vitality-restoring properties that would work quietly in the background. Nothing obvious. Just a slow-strengthening effect over days.
He stirred slowly, watching the water thicken.
From the pantry shelf above, he retrieved a sealed cloth packet—recently acquired. Bone marrow slices. Carefully wrapped to avoid suspicion. He selected only a small piece today, just enough to melt into the congee and vanish in taste.
He added it to the pot.
---
"Yuhao?"
The voice was soft. Drowsy.
He turned.
Yun'er stood at the doorway in her usual robe, hair messy, one sleeve falling slightly over her hand. She rubbed her eye and looked at the pot, then at him.
"You're up early again," she said with a small yawn.
"I always am," he replied. "Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. Go wash up."
She nodded, stepping toward the basin in the corner.
He returned to stirring the pot.
She never asked where the meat came from. Maybe she noticed, maybe she didn't. But she never questioned him about it. Just like she never asked where his extra coin came from, or how he always knew which herbs to pick from the hilltop without poisoning them both.
She trusted him.
And he never gave her reason not to.
---
Breakfast was quiet.
They ate in near silence. Not out of awkwardness, but out of comfort. Their conversations were always simple—focused, clean. He'd ask about her sleep. She'd ask if he planned to go into town. He'd nod or shake his head. Then they'd finish eating, wash the bowls, and go about their tasks.
That was their rhythm.
Not rushed.
Not loud.
But steady.