The dawn still dragged on, dressed in mist and silence, when Xiu Zhao began once more his ritual of pain and strength.
The courtyard of the mansion was a field of cold shadows, and he — a living flame burning against the wind.
A thousand push-ups. A thousand squats with buckets of water hanging from his fragile shoulders.
A thousand running steps, cutting through the still air of the night.
A thousand jumps that made the ground tremble lightly beneath his small feet.
Sweat streamed down his body like hot rivers born from sacrifice.
Xiu Zhao's muscles trembled, but his eyes — eyes of a boy who seemed to carry centuries of discipline — never wavered.
He tied a thick rope to one of the cherry trees and began to move it, the sharp sound of snaps mixing with the distant rustle of leaves.
It was the sound of a silent promise, of a heart that refused to weaken.
When he finished, the sky was beginning to brighten, and Xiu Zhao's body was covered in a glow of exhaustion and purity.
The boy took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with effort, and finally walked toward the bath.
He undressed slowly, each piece of clothing clinging to his skin as if it too resisted leaving him.
The hot water fell over him in soft threads, and steam filled the space — it was as if the pain melted away along with the dirt.
His body, though young, already had the contours of someone molded by the weight of willpower.
When the water touched his face, Xiu Zhao closed his eyes and, for a moment, allowed himself to be just a child again.
He left the bath with light steps, dressed in a black hanfu, and tied his hair into a simple bun.
The sun had already been up for some time, and a few servants, passing through the courtyard, still whispered among themselves about the boy who trained beyond the limits of the possible —
As if he were chasing something no one else could see.
The sun was lazily rising when Xiu Zhao crossed the mansion's silent corridor.
The smell of freshly brewed tea drifted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of old wood.
In the sitting room, only Ling Xu awaited him — her face lit by the morning light, and the absence of Hua Xu hovering like a quiet shadow over the table.
Xiu Zhao took his place without a word, his gaze still lost in emptiness.
The servants served breakfast with slow, almost reverent movements, as if they feared breaking the silence that lived in that space.
"Where is Hua Xu?" he asked, his voice low but firm.
"He's working," Ling Xu replied simply, bringing a small bun to her mouth. "It's normal. He's almost always away."
Xiu Zhao stayed silent for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the bowl before him, as if it could give him answers.
"And… when will he return?"
"Maybe in a month," she said, without much certainty, her mouth still full of rice.
"Oh."
The clinking of spoons against bowls was the only conversation that remained between them for long minutes.
The silence was not uncomfortable — it was the kind of stillness that comes to those who have already learned to live with absence.
When they finished, Ling Xu broke the calm with a smile that shone like morning:
"Xiu Zhao, could you train with me?"
He looked up, surprised by the plea in her eyes.
"Of course," he answered after a moment, biting the last piece of bread. "But we'll start before sunrise. So, you'd better wake up early."
"I'll try!" she said, excited, her face lighting up like a spark.
Xiu Zhao rose and left, his movement silent but firm — the kind of step that seemed to carry the gravity of someone far older than he truly was.
Ling Xu watched him until his shadow disappeared down the corridor, and a faint sigh escaped her lips — half weariness, half admiration.
Xiu Zhao, in turn, went to the library — that temple of peace where the world seemed less cruel.
There, among piles of books about martial arts, cultivation, and war strategies, he lost himself for hours.
The ancient characters danced before his tired eyes, and for a brief moment, he forgot that he was only a ten-year-old boy trying to become unbreakable.
The day went on slowly, but within Xiu Zhao, there was a storm no book could contain.
When he entered his room, the young master's eyes lit up at the sight of something on the bed: a bouquet of roses, vibrant and full of life, contrasting with the paleness of the room.
Among the flowers, a small golden note shone as if it had captured sunlight.
He reached out carefully, almost afraid to touch such delicacy, and began to read:
"I didn't know which roses you liked best, so I planted these for you. I grew them with all my love and care. I hope they make you as happy as they made me while I nurtured them…"
Xiu Zhao's heart tightened — a mix of warmth and longing that made it hard to breathe.
"I'm sorry for last time. I didn't want to leave you alone. I'm being punished for sneaking away to help you, but I'd do it all again if I had to."
The words turned into a whisper that seemed to fill every corner of the room.
"I promise to come back one day to see you. Until then, take good care of yourself, and don't forget our promises."
"I love you so much, my darling." It was signed Chen Yi, as if part of his soul had been sealed into that letter.
Xiu Zhao smiled, his cheeks flushed, his voice trembling with emotion:
"I'll never forget you."
The boy took the bouquet, breathing in the scent of the roses that came in pairs, as if each petal carried a memory of Chen Yi.
He laughed softly, remembering the rose crown he had once made for him — a gesture now reborn through the other's care.
He divided the flowers into two vases, maintaining the symmetry that always brought him comfort.
One vase on the table, another on the accessory desk — as if love could live in every corner of the room, silent and constant.
Still with shining eyes, Xiu Zhao looked at the sky through the window.
The wind blew gently, as if it wanted to caress both his joy and his longing.
He whispered, sending kisses into the air:
"See you tomorrow, little roses."
That simple gesture carried more than flowers: it carried memories, promises, and the warmth of a bond that neither time nor distance could ever erase.