The courtyard of the ruined Kia mansion still carried the stench of burnt wood and ash when the Imperial Preceptor arrived. His carriage cut through the silence, its wheels crunching over blackened stone. Servants and soldiers who lingered bowed, not daring to lift their eyes, for his presence pressed heavier than steel.
He stepped down, robes flowing without ripple, and found the child lying among the remnants. Small, motionless, breath shallow but present. A smear of blood still marked the boy's brow where the scar glowed faintly black. Without a word, the Preceptor stooped, lifted him into his arms, and turned.
No ceremony, no pause. The path led straight to the Imperial Palace.
The hall of audience burned with torchlight when he entered. Emperor Dharam sat enthroned upon gold and steel, the court arranged in strict tiers of silence. The Preceptor laid the child upon silk cushions at the base of the dais.
Dharam's gaze lingered on the boy, sharp and calculating.
"You have brought him." His voice was stone.
The Preceptor bowed, his words clipped. "As ordered, Your Majesty. He is presented."
A flicker of delight crossed Dharam's face, brief but real. "Excellent. He is our hope. From this day, you are granted the right to be his foster father. Teach him. Guide him. And above all–" his tone hardened, "–erase what must never resurface. The pact is not to be broken."
The Preceptor inclined his head. "As you will, Sire." The motion was smooth, but a subtle line of pressure lingered in his jaw, a sudden glance at Emperor – a signal not lost on those who knew how to watch.
Thus it was decreed. From that moment, the boy was placed beneath the shadow of the Imperial Preceptor.
The next three days passed with the child in silence.
In the Preceptor's mansion, chambers were sealed, attendants instructed. They found the boy frail, his small chest rising in shallow rhythm. Some pitied him in whispers: "So young… to endure such trauma." Others shook their heads: "He may never wake." None knew the truth. To them he was simply a body too fragile to contain what had befallen him.
Yet beneath that still shell, storms raged unseen.
Within the sea of consciousness, four translucent pillars stood like eternal sentinels, blood and thunder flowing visibly within them. Between their steady glow, Kiaria's soul lingered, absorbing the essence stored inside. Celestial meridian and the rest flared open, one after another, as impurities bled away from his channels. His small body on the pallet remained still, but inside, tides shifted, barriers broke.
He crossed the threshold of the Natal-Soul stage. Pressure built, then gave way. In the stillness of his inner sea, a Golden Core condensed – raw, shining, unyielding.
No one saw. No one could. To the world, the child remained comatose. To himself, he stepped into a realm beyond any other child's grasp.
On the dawn of the fourth day, his eyes opened.
The Preceptor stood waiting, arms folded behind his back, gaze unreadable. The boy stirred, blinking at light pouring through the lattice windows.
"My child," the Preceptor said, voice smooth yet tremulous at the edge. "You are awake at last. You kept me waiting too long. My heart nearly broke."
The words carried the tone of fatherly relief, yet his eyes were too sharp, too measuring.
Kiaria blinked again, but the names that should have risen – mother, father – never surfaced. The Emperor's will had been done. Memories sealed, ties severed. All he knew was the man before him and the word he spoke: father.
And so he accepted it. Innocence accepted what was given.
For a time before the Halo of Life was prepared, the child was left free to wander.
He dashed into the vast courtyard. A grand mansion loomed before him, walls gleaming white, adorned with golden carvings. At its center stood a towering statue of the Lord of Desires, enshrined upon a dais. Around its feet lay dazzling offerings – crystals, flowers, jewels, silken robes.
The boy's gaze lifted to the statue's eyes. They were crafted from pure crystal, so lifelike that anyone staring into them would fall into an endless illusion, trapped in the depths of their own heart.
But Kiaria's eyes did not falter. He stared without blinking, unshaken.
The high priests nearby exchanged whispers of awe. Only the foster father seemed unsurprised, though his expression darkened slightly.
Kiaria's laughter rang out as he ran past the hall and into the gardens. Bronze-tiered sculptures spilled over with cascading water, their countless spouts weaving a curtain of sound. Light refracted from every droplet, casting shifting colors across the boy's face.
At the heart of the formation stood an ancient, colossal tree. Four venerable spirits circled it in silent vigilance. These were legendary guardians, tree spirits said to return any injury with equal force. Their presence made even immortals hesitate.
Kiaria tilted his head at them, his childish curiosity hiding the cold edge that flickered briefly behind the gaze.
When the foster father finally guided him before the Elders of High Priests – each one a founder of their sect – Kiaria's expression shifted. The childish curiosity vanished. His cold stare swept across the venerables, making them stir uncomfortably. None expected such a change from a child.
"Interesting…" said the Founder of the Enlightenment Sect. His voice rang with certainty. "This child will become the future glory of our land. From this moment, I, Didhian, declare Kiaria as our inner sect's chief disciple."
The Halo of Life ceremony followed.
The central hall of the palace blazed with array-lines carved into its floor. Priests chanted lineage and legacy, their voices layering into a sonorous hum. The Halo ignited, rings of light spiraling upward, a dome of vitality enclosing the child at its center.
The moment Kiaria stood within it, the scar on his forehead flared. Light rushed toward him, a torrent feeding into the mark. Seventy percent of the Halo's essence was consumed, drawn into him with an appetite that stunned the priesthood. Runes flickered, edges threatened collapse.
The Preceptor's hands moved with subtle precision, weaving a counter-array to disperse the excess before the formation shattered. His expression remained calm, but sweat glistened faintly at his temple.
The child absorbed it all.
When the light receded, he no longer looked the same. His limbs lengthened, his posture steadied. What had been the frame of a small child– now carried the shape of four years – but the change was more than physical. His eyes, once filled with innocent play, now carried sharpness too steady for a child. His laughter quieted into silence edged with thought.
Witnesses stirred, uneasy. The air itself seemed to shift with appetite.
The sect founders and high priests gathered at the hall's edge. Murmurs rippled, then stilled when one voice rose clear. Everyone forgot about the incense.
Didhian, founder of the Enlightenment Sect, stepped forward, his presence commanding. "This child," he declared, "will become the future glory of our land. From this moment, I, Didhian, declare Kiaria the inner sect's chief disciple. Teach him whatever he desires. Raise him without restraint."
Gasps rose among the elders. Never before had Didhian involved himself so directly in palace matters.
The Preceptor chuckled softly, bowing with a gesture of mock humility. "Hahaha, Master Didhian, you move swiftly. Is this truly your first hand in royal affairs? Or merely the first you admit openly?"
Didhian's eyes glinted, but his voice stayed calm. "I was always secluded. But now is my turn to act."
His gaze returned to the boy. "He is highly gifted. None can deny it. He must be raised to the peak."
Kiaria stood in silence, posture straight, eyes sweeping across the hall. Not the eyes of a child, but of one measuring those who measured him. The silence grew heavy, unsettled.
Finally, the Emperor's voice broke it. "So be it. Let the ceremony be concluded."
The light of the Halo dimmed. Offerings were withdrawn, chants fell quiet. Ministers exhaled as if released from a grip.
The Preceptor took the boy's hand, cloak wrapping him close. To all who watched, it was the gesture of a father's protection. But the weight in the Preceptor's eyes told another truth – not warmth, but custody.
The palace resumed its rhythm. Guards marched, fountains played, torches flickered. Yet within those halls, a shift had taken root.
The boy who had lost everything now stood clothed in imperial grandeur, bound in webs of power and ambition. The Preceptor bore the title of father, the sects claimed him as disciple, and the Emperor named him hope.
None knew what had been sealed. None saw what had grown within. But all felt it – a storm hidden in a child's frame, a silence that promised the shape of years to come.