Morning broke over Shanghai City with the warm golden haze of a summer sun casting lazy shadows across glass buildings. Jigen awoke at exactly 7:00 AM, as he did every day. The alarm on his sleek black clock never rang; it didn't need to. His body moved with the rhythm of the world, as if he had memorized time itself.
He sat up, the blanket slipping down his bare chest. Silence filled his room—comfortable, familiar. With practiced motions, he slid out of bed and padded barefoot across the polished wooden floor, opening the curtains to flood the room with sunlight. His parents were already downstairs; he could hear faint voices and the sizzling of breakfast being prepared.
He washed, dressed, and descended the stairs wearing a white shirt and black slacks, his uniform for school. The same routine, the same tranquility. Nothing unusual, nothing revealing.
His mother, Xian Ni, smiled from behind the kitchen counter, brushing a strand of black hair from her face. "Good morning, sweetheart."
"Morning, mom," Jigen said softly, taking his seat.
His father, Jiang Su, folded the newspaper and looked up. "Big day today?"
Jigen shrugged. "Just another Monday."
But Mondays were never just Mondays in Shanghai City—not for him.
---
Outside, the streets buzzed with hovercars and pedestrians. The neon signs of cultivation clinics, energy drink bars, and qi-enhancing salons pulsed gently in the morning light. Jigen walked with purpose, his schoolbag slung over one shoulder. People greeted him as he passed—some with polite nods, some with quiet envy. He was respected but not envied for power. That truth remained hidden.
He arrived at the elite Academy of Spiritual Sciences, a sleek structure made of white marble and skyglass. Students wore navy blazers embroidered with the school emblem, a silver phoenix, and chatter filled the courtyard.
"Jigen!" called out a familiar voice.
He turned to see Natasha approaching. Her raven-black hair was tied in a loose braid, and her pale gray eyes shimmered with intelligence. Unlike most girls who cultivated energy openly, Natasha carried herself with mystery and restraint. She walked beside Jigen without a word, their silent companionship stronger than any loud declaration.
"How was your weekend?" she asked finally.
"Peaceful," he replied.
"No nightmares?"
He looked at her, curious. "Do you think I have nightmares?"
"No," she said, smiling faintly. "I think the world has them for you."
He didn't respond. She always spoke like that—half-serious, half-sarcastic. But beneath her calm demeanor lay someone who saw deeper than others.
---
Their first class was Modern Cultivation Theory. Professor Li, a stocky man with thick-rimmed glasses, stood before the class writing formulas on a smartboard. "Now, who can tell me the optimal cultivation cycle for the Fourth Meridian?"
Hands rose. Jigen's did not.
He listened, absorbing every word, though his mind was far ahead. The information bored him—not because it was easy, but because it was irrelevant to his life.
Natasha passed him a note under the desk:
Want to ditch third period?
He read it, then tore a tiny corner of the paper and wrote:
Why?
The weather's too nice to waste on math.
He glanced out the window. The sun was high, bathing the campus in light. He smiled and nodded.
---
Third period never saw them. Instead, they sat beneath an old tree on the edge of the academy's meditation garden. The air was fragrant with blooming spiritlotus. Natasha leaned back against the bark, arms behind her head.
"You ever feel like everything's too perfect?" she asked.
Jigen lay beside her, hands folded over his chest. "All the time."
"Doesn't it scare you?"
"No. Perfection is just the beginning of decay."
She turned to him, her brow raised. "That's... unsettlingly profound."
"I read too much."
She chuckled. "Liar."
They stayed there in silence. Birds sang overhead, and the city felt distant. This moment, like so many others, was fleeting and real.
---
Later, they returned for the last class of the day: Philosophy of Cultivation. The classroom was dimly lit, and Professor Yue, a thin man with sharp features, paced slowly before the students.
"Cultivation," he began, "is not merely the strengthening of body or mind. It is a philosophy. A statement against time."
He paused, looking at Jigen for a moment.
"To cultivate is to deny the void. To live longer, not because one fears death, but because one wishes to understand the heartbeat of the cosmos. True or false?"
No one answered. Natasha looked at Jigen. He said nothing.
Professor Yue's eyes twinkled. "Sometimes silence is the most intelligent answer."
---
The final bell rang. Students spilled into the hallways, eager to escape. Jigen and Natasha walked toward the school gates. She seemed thoughtful.
"My parents are coming back tonight," she said.
"Good. You'll have your home back."
She gave him a side glance. "I liked staying with you."
"I know."
She stopped walking. "Do you think things will change now?"
Jigen met her gaze. "Things always change. That's what makes them beautiful."
"I'll see you tomorrow?"
He nodded.
As she turned to leave, her fingers brushed his for a second—barely noticeable, yet filled with emotion. He didn't look back.
---
Back home, Jigen sat on the balcony, a book open on his lap, untouched. The sky turned orange, then crimson, then indigo. Lights flickered on across the cityscape, and stars blinked to life above.
His mother joined him, a cup of tea in her hands.
"You like her," she said.
He didn't deny it.
"She's special," his mother added.
"She is."
"And dangerous?"
He finally looked at her. "Aren't we all?"
She smiled sadly. "Yes. But not all of us know it."
They sat in silence again, sipping tea, listening to the quiet ticking of the wall clock inside. Time, ever the silent spectator, moved on.
---
At midnight, Jigen lay in bed. The ceiling above him was painted with galaxies, an old gift from his father. He stared at the stars, unblinking.
He whispered to himself, "Tomorrow again."
And the clock ticked softly.