The golden lines beneath the children pulsed like a great heart, each beat carrying the weight of generations. Every awakening fell into rhythm: a shimmer of light, a name spoken, a murmur from families, and then the next small figure stepping forward.
From the western row, a slender boy in pale-green robes waited, his hands clasped behind him. His gaze did not dart with nerves but lingered on the Moon of Origin, as though searching past its glow into something older still.
"Ye Liangjun," an aide called.
The boy advanced, unhurried, his soft steps barely echoing across the marble. Elders watched closely, though none spoke. On the high dais, Grand Elder Ye
Tianlan's gaze tightened—not with surprise, but with the calm weight of long memory.
At the center of the array, the patterns under Liangjun's feet shifted into spirals, tightening as if the formation itself turned toward him. The Moon of Origin brightened, its silver sheen edged with a foreboding gold.
"Begin," intoned Ye Shengyuan, Hall Master of Bloodline Purity.
The array flared. Light climbed Liangjun's form like molten rivers, and the air thickened. The scent of sandalwood deepened into something sharp and clean, like thunder pressing low before a storm.
Then his eyes opened.
Twin suns blazed forth, not in a flash, but in a steady, flawless brilliance. Golden radiance poured outward, washing over the hall. The painted eyes of the ancestors in the mural above seemed to awaken, their irises catching that light and reflecting it in return. The massive pillars trembled faintly, humming as though in recognition.
Liangjun blinked once, and those near the front felt it: a silent, profound scrutiny. It was as though they were being seen beyond flesh, beyond robe or qi, down to the truths they carried. A few shifted unconsciously, shoulders straightening, flaws suddenly bare.
Ye Shengyuan's voice rang clear, edged with a reverence rarely heard from the old master: "Heaven's Sight. Complete."
The words rippled through the hall, a whisper that became a collective, indrawn breath. Murmurs rose, then were quickly stilled.
"To awaken it whole…" one elder whispered, his eyes wide. "Only in the oldest scrolls have I—" He stopped as Ye Tianlan's calm gaze met his own.
On the dais, Tianlan's lips curved by the barest fraction. For a moment, a quiet, controlled pride touched the Grand Elder's face. His grandson stood at the heart of the hall, and the golden fire of his gaze lingered in every eye that had witnessed him.
Liangjun stepped back, his eyes dimming to ordinary brown. But the mark he left on the hall would not soon fade.
The ceremony flowed on, a steady river of light and names. The great hall, so vast and solemn moments ago, had softened, its air now filled with a low murmur of anticipation and pride.
A tiny girl with robe sleeves far too long was nudged forward next. She shuffled into the array, blinking as the golden lines shimmered faintly with an ethereal silver mist. The air around her shifted, feeling thin and distant, as if she were viewing the world through a fine sheet of glass. The mist swirled into her pupils, and for a fleeting moment, she saw not the faces of the elders, but their blurred forms against a backdrop of things that had not yet happened—a future scar on an old man's brow, a missing tooth on a smiling parent.
"Fleeting Sign," declared Ye Shengyuan.
The girl's eyes widened. "Does that mean I'll… see ghosts?"
A ripple of laughter stirred among the families. One elder hid a smile behind his sleeve.
"No," Shengyuan replied dryly, though his lips twitched. "Only glimpses of what has not yet happened."
Relieved, the girl curtsied clumsily and skipped back, her sleeves flapping like banners. The momentary visions faded, leaving her to see only the present, her own future still a happy mystery.
The boy who followed stomped forward like a soldier.
The array flared with a faint golden light that hardened instantly, sharpening every edge of his vision. The carvings on the distant pillars, once a vague blur, now appeared so sharp and distinct he could count the tiny imperfections in the stone. He could see the faint dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, each a perfect, crystalline speck. His gaze, once a childish blur, had become a flawless pane of glass.
"Clear Lens," came the verdict.
The boy puffed out his chest until a voice rang from the family seats: "Good! Now you'll finally see when Father is stealing your sweets."
The hall filled with chuckles, warm enough to soften its solemn walls.
A quiet girl with a single braid went next. The golden array pulsed, and a soft azure light, like a drop of ink in clear water, bloomed in her eyes. As the light settled, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth spread from her, and the objects around her—a bronze incense burner, a set of scrolls, a stray hair ribbon on the floor—seemed to carry a new, subtle weight of meaning. It was not a sight, but a feeling—a gentle tugging sense of where things belonged and what they were connected to. The world felt less chaotic, more ordered.
"Fresh Ink," Shengyuan named it.
Her mother clasped her hands in delight. "Perfect! Now you'll never lose your slippers again."
The girl ducked her head, cheeks red, but smiled despite herself.
So it went—solemnity woven with small moments of joy, each child's gift a vibrant thread in the Ye tapestry.
In another courtyard of the Supreme Pavilion, a silver mirror shimmered in the air, showing the awakening ceremony unfolding within the Bloodline Hall.
Li Shen sat cross-legged, his posture stiff, eyes fixed with sharp concentration. His younger sister, Li Mei, leaned forward on her elbows, her legs swinging idly as she watched the glowing children. Behind them stood their grandfather, silent and broad-shouldered, his gaze steady on the visions. He was a mountain, and they were the small trees at his feet.
When Ye Liangjun's golden radiance burst forth, Mei's mouth dropped open. "It's so bright! Like lightning, but from his eyes!"
Shen frowned, his voice a low grumble. "It's Heaven's Sight. Stop gawking."
Mei wrinkled her nose, undeterred. "You were gawking too."
Their grandfather's deep voice broke their bickering, his tone a quiet rumble of thunder. "What you see is brilliance—but remember, a light this strong always draws eyes. Not every gaze upon you will be kind."
The weight of his words settled over them. Earlier when Chenrui awakened Soul Gaze, Shen's brows drew together, his young face serious. "That one feels… heavy. Like he could make people bow just by looking."
Mei hugged her knees. "I don't like it. It's creepy."
Their grandfather nodded faintly. "Soul Gaze touches the heart. Few ever awaken it. He will not walk an easy path." He paused, his gaze shifting to the next awakening.
And when Qingxian's Veil of Fate covered the hall in a shimmering silver mist, Mei shivered, tugging on her brother's sleeve. "Grandpa… she looked right at me. Did she see us?"
Shen stayed quiet, though his little fists tightened at the idea of being seen without his consent.
The old man rested his hands on their shoulders. His voice was calm, but a profound certainty carried in every word. "Do not fear what others awaken. You carry the Li bloodline—the Thunder Vein. Whether it shines gold, violet, or azure, it is thunder all the same.
Storms break mountains, storms feed rivers, storms sweep the skies. That is enough."
The reassurance, both simple and vast, filled Mei with a new kind of energy. She brightened. "Mine will be violet, I know it!"
Shen shot her a look. "Gold is stronger."
"You're boring," Mei said with a pout.
"You're loud," Shen muttered back.
Their grandfather allowed the smallest smile, a silent, knowing moment of warmth, though his eyes returned to the mirror, heavy with thought. His tone deepened, no longer just for them, but for himself as well.
"Most children inherit from one line only. That is balance. But once in an age, a child may carry more than one. Such rarity brings power, but also burden. Do not envy what others are given. Walk your path firmly, and let thunder speak for you when the time comes."
The siblings glanced at each other. Shen's jaw was tight with a quiet resolve, Mei's eyes bright with wonder, but together, in their own way, they nodded. They understood now. They were not just witnesses to the gifts of others, but bearers of their own unique, powerful legacy.
From his master's secluded courtyard, Ye Xuan still watched through the rippling mirror. His small hands rested on the railing, his gaze steady, but in his eyes, a spark lingered.
When Chenrui spoke so earnestly to Qingxian, when the girl in long sleeves asked if she would see ghosts, when the boy puffed out his chest and bragged about his Clear Lens—each little moment drew the corners of his mouth upward. It wasn't a laugh or a full smile, but a flicker of genuine amusement that softened his usually calm, serious face.
For the first time, he found himself wishing he were there. He yearned to be among them, with their fumbling sleeves, their whispered boasts, their small rivalries and their bursts of laughter. They were children together, yet he was apart, watching from behind veils of duty and heritage. A faint ache tugged in his chest, a longing to simply belong. He was a secret, but a lonely one.
At his side, Supreme Elder Ye Qianlan did not miss it. The way his gaze lingered a moment too long, the way his fingers tightened on the railing—subtle tells no stranger would ever catch. Her eyes softened. She had been so focused on his training, on the destiny of his power, that she had forgotten the simple truths of a child's heart. Though she said nothing, a thought took root.
Perhaps... the boy should not train alone forever.