The dining hall of the Duke's manor was a cathedral of shadow and light. Lanterns swung gently from carved beams, casting golden flecks across the walls patterned with storm motifs. The long jade table gleamed under their soft illumination, each porcelain bowl and silver chopstick arranged with meticulous precision, yet the room felt more like a stage awaiting its players than a place of comfort.
Tiān Lán entered alone, his pale blue silk robe stitched with silver clouds fluttering softly with each step. He moved deliberately, each footfall measured, like the silent rhythm of rain outside—soft, inexorable, carrying a weight no one else could feel.
At the far end, Lady Ruo Yin rose, her face blossoming into warmth that seemed almost fragile in the tension-filled room.
"You came," she said, voice gentle but edged with relief, like frost thawing in spring sunlight. "Are you feeling better, my son?"
Tiān Lán inclined his head lightly, a bow more precise than ceremonious. "Yes, Mother. Thank you for your concern."
She stepped closer, hand brushing his shoulder, and for a moment the warmth was real. Yet beneath it, he sensed her subtle tremor—the memory of the old, frail boy she had once watched struggle. Her fear was not of him, but for him.
"Come, sit beside me," she urged.
Tiān Lán moved with quiet grace, taking his seat. Across the table, two other figures regarded him with calculated detachment.
Lei Xuan, the eldest, lounged with the ease of privilege. Seventeen, broad-shouldered, his robe of deep purple etched with thundercloud patterns. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Well, well. The ghost boy joins us after all," he said, voice smooth but sharp.
Opposite him, Lei Feng, the second son, sat like a shadow. Fifteen, lean, eyes veiled by long black lashes. He inclined his head once, neutral, measuring, almost unreadable.
And at the head, Duke Lei Zhenhai—an iron statue carved into flesh. Black hair streaked with silver, jaw sharp as a sword's edge, eyes cold and unforgiving. His gaze passed over Tiān Lán like a lightning bolt frozen mid-air.
"You've recovered," the Duke said flatly. "Good. Perhaps now you'll stop wasting our physician's time."
Ruo Yin tensed beside Tiān Lán. But he bowed again, calm, unreadable.
"I won't waste anything again, Father," he said softly, words carrying a weight the room could not measure.
The Duke blinked once. Silence fell.
Servants moved with quiet efficiency, led by Xiao Yu, who placed a steaming bowl of lotus broth before Tiān Lán. Her bow lingered, hands trembling slightly. Something about him had changed. Something no one, not even the Duke, had witnessed.
The conversation flowed around him like wind around a mountain peak. Lei Xuan boasted of sword rankings at the Thunderblade Pavilion. Lei Feng corrected him with clinical precision, citing a recent duel. The Duke nodded occasionally, but never looked at Tiān Lán. Only Ruo Yin tried to draw him in.
"Lán'er," she said softly, eyes warm, "I've asked the alchemists to prepare strengthening pills for your bones. You're still growing."
Tiān Lán set down his cup deliberately. "That won't be necessary."
Ruo Yin's brow furrowed. "Why not?"
"Because I've already created something better." He reached into his robe and slid a small jade vial across the table. "Lightning Root Essence. Brewed from rain ginseng and storm lotus harvested on the east hill."
The room froze.
Lei Feng's eyes narrowed. "Impossible. That method hasn't succeeded in decades. It lacks a stabilizer."
Tiān Lán's gaze met his, calm as the eye of a hurricane. "Only if heated with fire. I used thunder Qi instead."
Even Lei Xuan's smirk faltered.
The Duke's eyes sharpened, but he said nothing.
Dinner continued, thick with unspoken tension. Each bite, each sip, a delicate chess move. Ruo Yin watched her sons, sensing a shift beneath the calm surface, a tremor of power no one could measure.
At last, dessert arrived—a rare lotus nectar cake, fragrant and soft. Ruo Yin smiled, extending it to him. "For you. You loved these as a child."
Tiān Lán paused, eyes tracing the delicate layers of the pastry. Then he looked to her, face softening in the candlelight, and took a small bite.
"It's sweet," he said. "Thank you, Mother."
Then—
GONG.
The mountain trembled. The bell's ancient voice rolled through the manor like a living thing. Conversations stopped. Servants froze mid-motion.
"The Mirror Bell," whispered Lei Feng. "But it hasn't rung in—"
GONG.
Again.
Tiān Lán's cup clinked against the plate as his eyes shifted. Brown melted into storm-blue, a faint, ethereal glow flickering in the lantern light.
Outside, the storm thickened. Winds whipped through the mountain peaks. Rain lashed the windows.
The past… was calling.
And Tiān Lán was ready to answer.