Nine braced his arms, watching as Seven stood unsteadily, his tiny legs wobbling beneath him. His son remained silent, round eyes filled with expectation.
"Walk. Train those legs."
Nine nudged Seven's small frame forward, but instead of taking a step, the boy simply raised his arms in a clear demand—to be carried.
Nine blinked.
Seven blinked back.
Nine tilted his head.
Seven mirrored the movement, brows furrowing in confusion. It was clear—his father always carried him. Why was this time any different?
"You. Stop copying me," Nine huffed.
Seven babbled in his incomprehensible toddler speech, then toddled forward on unsteady feet, latching onto Nine's knee for balance.
A rare, genuine smile softened Nine's face. He crouched down, taking his son's tiny hands in his own, guiding him forward, step by step. Seven giggled, delighted by his father's attention, his joy uncontained. His steps were staggering, uncoordinated, but Nine held him firm, ensuring he never fell.
The vast temple, built for power and reverence, became nothing more than a playground for father and son, filled with their quiet laughter. The grand hall, where Nine's untouched throne loomed in the distance, bore witness to this moment.
Aya had left them alone for their bonding time, tending to the garden he had built for her.
Abruptly, Nine let go. "Now do it on your own."
Seven hesitated. He took slow, wobbly steps toward his father, lips trembling with effort. The moment he reached him, his small face crumpled, eyes welling with tears before he let out a soft sob.
Nine sighed. "What now?"
Seven sniffled and just stared at him.
Nine narrowed his eyes.
Seven mimicked him exactly.
Nine sighed again. "You really have no originality, do you?"
Seven copied his expression again, lips pursed in a perfect imitation of his father.
A bark of laughter escaped Nine—loud, unrestrained, echoing through the temple halls. Seven, thrilled by his father's amusement, joined in with a high-pitched giggle.
Aya always said his laughter was unsettling, like a lunatic's cackle. Even she was sometimes startled by it. Hopefully, Seven wouldn't inherit that.
For a change of scenery, Nine carried Seven to the training grounds, settling the boy on a mat. He gave him a firm look.
"Watch me train."
But before Nine could move, Seven crawled toward him, determined to cling to his side.
"…Ah." Nine sighed in surrender. "Fine. Just stay put."
He crossed his legs, closing his eyes. He had no need to cultivate—his essence handled that passively—but he sought to test its depths. The fire within him, a green inferno, burned fiercely. But what more could it do?
Qi flowed in a perfect cycle, forming six rotating rings—a phenomenon known in ancient texts as the Sixfold Axis. It was more than just a technique; it was proof that his energy was self-sustaining, no longer bound by human limitations.
Strength. Speed. Qi. All beyond measure. His body healed before wounds could even form. His reflexes outpaced thought itself.
Instinctively, he caught Seven mid-fall as the boy tried to climb onto his shoulders.
Nine opened his eyes, holding his son securely with one arm as he turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, where the mountains stood beneath the sun's golden gaze.
If he was this strong… what of the other Lords?
Killing one would be pointless. The essence would simply seek another host. If there was an enemy to destroy, it wasn't the successor—it was the essence itself.
But for now, he would use it.
"I can't train with you around," Nine muttered, glancing down.
Seven, sucking his thumb, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
"You just ate." Nine narrowed his gaze in suspicion, but sighed in resignation. He stood, lifting his son into his arms. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked toward Aya's garden.
They found her amidst the greenery, a vision of quiet serenity as she watered the plants. When she looked up and saw them, laughter lit her face.
"Aww, look at my boys," she teased. "Such a lovely sight."
Nine and Seven, as if in perfect rehearsal, both frowned at her.
Aya laughed harder.
"He's hungry," Nine stated.
"Give him to me." Aya settled onto a wooden bench, cradling Seven as she began nursing him.
Nine sat beside her, watching in silence.
After a moment, he spoke. "Have I told you?"
Aya glanced at him, curious. "Told me what?"
"Your milk is good."
She kicked him.
Nine had braced for impact, so he only grinned, undeterred.
"I'll be attending the ceremony alone," he continued, tone shifting to something more serious. "Stay here with Seven. Colla and Shin will ensure your safety."
Aya's fingers tensed slightly around Seven. A flicker of hesitation crossed her eyes, but Nine caught it instantly. He took her hand in his, firm and reassuring.
"I'll come back. Alive," he murmured. "I always do."
Her gaze softened. Through their shared bond, she could feel his certainty.
She nodded, then smiled faintly. "Bring back quality meat."
Nine blinked. "Meat? The estate has plenty."
"I want you to hunt something for me instead." Aya's tone was light, but her eyes held meaning. If he returned, he wouldn't come back with just victories—he would return as her husband, as Seven's father.
Nine exhaled, shaking his head with a smirk. "Anything you want, Aya. Anything you want."
Aya looked down at their son. "Seven's growing fast."
Nine followed her gaze. Seven, still latched onto his mother, briefly glanced up at them before returning to his meal.
"He looks like you," Aya noted.
"Of course, he does." Nine smirked. "Look at that handsome face."
Aya deadpanned. "I take it back."
Nine chuckled and pulled them both into his arms. He leaned down, resting his chin lightly atop Aya's head.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustling leaves and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
After a while, Nine murmured, "What will you name our next child?"
Aya pondered, nestling deeper into his warmth, keeping Seven safely between them.
"If it's a boy, Syras."
Nine raised a brow. "Why Syras?"
"When I waited for you under the tree back at the tavern, a storyteller passed by. He shared old tales, and one name stood out. Syras—it means 'soul thread,' an invisible string that ties fate together."
Nine hummed, inhaling her scent.
"And if it's a girl?"
"Niya." Aya smiled. "A combination of our names."
"I like both." His voice was barely above a whisper.
They stayed like that, wrapped in each other's warmth, the wind moving lazily around them, matching the unhurried rhythm of their quiet moment.
Then Seven burped.
Nine lifted him effortlessly, settling him in one arm while keeping his other hand firmly clasped around Aya's.
"Let's eat," he said.
Aya chuckled, standing as she led the way.