My father always seemed larger than the room.
When he stepped inside, the air felt heavier, as if the walls pulled closer. His hair was the color of burning coals, catching every bit of morning light. His eyes—deep crimson—looked like they could see through any lie. Years of training had carved strength into his bronze skin. Even in old, faded robes, he carried himself like a man who never needed fine clothes to be respected.
People in the city whispered his name. They called him one of the greatest martial artists alive.
To me, he was simply Father.
And I was the only son—the boy meant to keep the Tiger Clan alive.
My sister was a star I could never touch. Her black hair spilled like ink, her violet eyes always calm and bright. Teachers and elders bowed to her talent. They said she was born for greatness, and when she wore our clan's silken robes, she looked as if the world belonged to her. Standing beside her, I sometimes felt like nothing more than her shadow.
Mother softened the edges of our house. Where Father was stone, she was water. Her hands were gentle, her words careful. When she spoke, the weight on my shoulders always lifted a little.
And then there was the youngest. My little sibling was pale and quiet, with the same red hair Father and I shared. They clung to Mother's sleeve, too small to understand the worries that filled our days. Every time I looked at them, a promise rose in me: I will protect you. Always.
Yet some nights, when the house slept, a strange ache lived in my chest. It felt like an old scar, a memory I could almost remember. I didn't know if it was a dream or something real, but it stayed with me, heavy and silent.
Five years slipped past like falling leaves.
One cold morning, Father called me to the training grounds.
Dawn was only a pale streak across the sky. Dew soaked the grass. Father waited with a wooden practice sword in his hand. His shadow stretched long across the field.
"Fan Ling," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Today you begin."
He placed the sword in my palms. It was heavier than I expected. My small fingers fought to hold it, my arms trembled as I tried to raise it.
"Our swordsmanship is not only fighting," Father said. His voice was steady, like iron on stone. "It is who we are. Blood and honor, passed from father to son. Now it is your turn."
I nodded, though my throat tightened. I didn't want him to see my fear.
His gaze sharpened. "Forge your heart like metal. Harden it. If you cannot, you will not protect your mother. You will not protect your sister. You will not protect this family."
The words struck deeper than the weight of the sword. My hands shook—part effort, part fear. I was only a boy, but I understood what he asked: grow up now, before you are ready.
I drew a breath that felt like fire. My arms ached as I lifted the sword again.
But I did not let go.
That morning, I stopped being only a child.
I became my father's son.