The first light of dawn spilled over the Finn Estate, turning the mist into liquid gold. The air hummed faintly with Murmin energy, that invisible current from which cultivators drew their power. Even the stones beneath the courtyard glowed with a faint, spiritual warmth.
William Arlong moved through the garden with steady, measured steps, his black coat fluttering lightly in the breeze. Every movement of his was precise, controlled—an echo of discipline forged over years of service.
The Finn Clan was among the five great houses of the Murmin World, a family whose roots ran deep into ancient history. And William—though only a butler—had served their bloodline longer than anyone else still breathing.
He stopped at the edge of the lake, where the mist drifted low and quiet. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a shadow stirring beneath the surface—something golden and serpentine—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Still keeping watch at sunrise?"
He turned at the sound of the voice.
Lela Finn, heir of the clan, stood a few steps behind him. Her pale hair caught the morning light like strands of frost, and her robes, though simple, carried the embroidery of her family's phoenix sigil.
"You're awake early, Young Lady," William said, bowing slightly. "Your morning tea isn't ready yet."
She smiled faintly. "That's fine. I didn't sleep anyway."
Her tone was calm, almost too calm. There was a distant look in her eyes—one that didn't belong to a sixteen-year-old girl. William noticed it every day since she had returned from her three-month isolation. The elders had praised her for her sudden improvement in cultivation, calling it genius awakening.
But William knew better. He had seen many geniuses. None of them looked as if they carried the weight of lifetimes behind their gaze.
"Something troubles you?" he asked carefully.
"Nothing that should concern you," she said. Then, after a pause, "Everything that does."
He frowned slightly, but she only stepped closer to the lake, her reflection rippling in the water. "Tell me, William… if you could see the end of all things before it happened, would you try to change it?"
It was an odd question for morning conversation.
"I suppose that would depend on whether the end deserved changing," he replied.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You always have the right answer. Even when you don't know what I mean."
William adjusted his gloves. "It's my duty to understand you, Young Lady—even when I don't."
"Then you have a difficult duty ahead of you," she murmured.
Later, in the training courtyard, Lela stood before the ancient stones etched with the Finn clan's cultivation runes. The marks pulsed faintly as she channeled her spirit energy.
William watched from the sidelines, hands folded behind his back. Her control had become extraordinary. Every movement she made was deliberate and refined, as though she had spent years mastering it.
But that wasn't possible.
He had trained her himself since she was a child. He remembered her impatience, her pride, her frustration at slow progress. The girl before him was someone else—disciplined, precise, almost… cold.
When she struck the final form, the air trembled. The stones cracked, the ground rippled with golden light, and the faint hum of Murmin Essence filled the courtyard.
"Enough," William said sharply. "You're overextending your core."
She lowered her hand, breathing evenly. "No. I'm just beginning to understand its depth."
William frowned. "Where did you learn that variation? That's not part of the Finn Flow Sequence."
Her lips curved slightly. "A dream, perhaps."
He studied her closely. "Dreams don't refine techniques."
"Then maybe mine do."
There it was again—that same unsettling calm, the same quiet authority that didn't fit her age or rank. She moved like someone who'd already fought a hundred battles and lost too much along the way.
"You're holding secrets," William said quietly.
She looked at him then, her eyes gleaming like silver under the sunlight. "Of course I am. Everyone in this clan does. The difference is, mine are only dangerous if I fail."
Before he could reply, she walked past him, leaving the air faintly warm where she'd stood.
That evening, the estate was painted in moonlight. The courtyards glowed faintly with spirit lamps, and distant bells from the northern temple echoed across the valley.
William brought a tray of tea to her chambers. Lela sat by the window, staring into the stars above the mountain peaks.
"You haven't eaten since morning," he said, setting the tray down.
"I haven't been hungry," she replied without turning.
"You'll make yourself ill if you keep ignoring the body," he warned. "Even a cultivator's spirit needs strength to anchor itself."
She chuckled softly. "You speak as if you've lived a hundred years."
He smiled faintly. "Perhaps I've served long enough to feel that way."
Finally, she looked back at him. "You've always been loyal, haven't you, William?"
"My life belongs to your family," he said simply.
Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than usual. Then she said, "And what if one day, I make choices that would destroy everything this family stands for?"
He met her eyes without hesitation. "Then I would still serve you."
She looked down at the teacup, her fingers trembling for the briefest second before she hid it with a sip. "You shouldn't say things like that," she whispered. "Loyalty can become a curse."
"Then let it curse me," he said.
Something in her expression softened—something human, fragile, almost sorrowful.
"You don't know what's coming," she murmured.
"No," William said. "But you do."
Her hand froze mid-motion. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then she set the cup down and forced a smile. "I only meant… as heir, it's my duty to prepare for whatever may come."
William bowed slightly. "Of course, Young Lady."
But as he turned to leave, he heard her whisper under her breath—too soft for most to catch, but his trained ears caught it clearly:
"This time… I won't let it happen again."
He paused at the doorway, eyes narrowing, but said nothing.
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it a low rumble from the mountains—like the growl of something ancient waking from sleep.
William looked toward the dark horizon, his hand brushing the hilt of the short blade hidden beneath his sleeve.
For reasons he couldn't explain, a strange unease gripped him whenever he thought of Lela Finn. Not fear, but the haunting feeling that she had already lived through the storms yet to come.
And though he didn't know why, he swore quietly to the night:
"Whatever you're facing, Young Lady… I'll stand beside you."
In her room, behind the closed doors, Lela's eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight. She opened her palm, revealing a charred phoenix feather—an artifact that should have been lost a century in the future.
Her whisper barely stirred the air:
"Then let's see if fate can burn twice."
The wind outside shifted again, and somewhere deep within the estate, an ancient seal trembled.