Hearthvale was a small village at the edge of the Lowwood. At dawn, people stepped out of their homes, lit fires, and went to their fields. Nothing changed much from day to day. That was how the villagers liked it.
Aren sat on a fence near the eastern path and watched the morning unfold.
This, the villagers did not like.
Children played nearby, kicking a leather ball. They avoided looking at him, but their glances kept returning.
"Why's he staring again?" one muttered.
"Don't mind him," another said. "He's just strange."
Aren didn't react. He watched them the way one might watch the wind move a branch—quietly, without judgment. His interest wasn't in the children but in patterns: how the ball spun, how footsteps shifted, how voices rose and fell.
It all made sense to him.It made others uneasy.
When the work bell rang, Aren climbed down and walked toward the village road. His steps were light. He didn't think about it; moving quietly simply felt natural.
Mrs. Brennar was carrying a basket outside when he passed.
"Oh—Aren," she said, startled. "You move so quietly. Maybe let people know when you're near."
"Why?" he asked.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then forced a smile. "It's polite."
Aren nodded once. He didn't greet her. He kept walking. After he left, she let out a breath.
Later, Aren sat beneath the Willowshade Tree on the village outskirts. People avoided it. They said it felt "wrong" somehow. Aren didn't mind. He liked that no one came here.
He pressed his palm to the bark. Tiny threads of Dao energy ran through the trunk—faint, but present. Most villagers never noticed them.
Aren found himself returning to a question he couldn't shake:
Why does the world work the way it does?And why do people accept it without asking?
Footsteps sounded. A pair of children passed by.
"That's him," one whispered. "Always sitting alone."
"He's weird," the other said. "He stares at trees."
Aren heard them. He didn't look away from the bark.
Their comments didn't bother him. If anything, they puzzled him.
Why did people judge what they didn't understand?Why were they so sure of themselves?
He watched the leaves sway in the breeze. The branches creaked. The energy in the tree pulsed in a steady rhythm.
A shadow fell across the grass.
"Aren," a voice called.
He turned. His older brother, Lio, approached from the road. Lio was everything the village approved of—warm, loud, eager to help. People smiled when they saw him. They relaxed.
Aren had never understood why Lio's presence had that effect.He only knew his own lacked it.
"Mother's looking for you," Lio said. "She needs help with the firewood."
Aren stood. "I'm coming."
Lio studied him a moment. Aren held his gaze without blinking. This seemed to unsettle Lio, though he hid it.
"You were sitting here again," Lio said. "You know how people talk."
Aren didn't answer.
"You should try to fit in more," Lio pressed. "At least speak to people."
"Why?"
Lio opened his mouth, hesitated, then shook his head. "Just trust me."
Aren didn't understand what trust had to do with speaking. But he followed anyway.
They walked through the village. People greeted Lio with waves and nods. When they noticed Aren beside him, their expressions changed—only slightly, but enough for Aren to see.
A subtle shift.A faint stiffening of shoulders.A forced smile.
He observed all of it.
When they reached home, their mother was stacking chopped logs. Sweat clung to her brow.
"Aren," she said, relieved. "Help me bring these inside."
He did so. He didn't complain or delay. He lifted each log with steady, practiced motions. Aren was strong for his age, though he didn't think of strength as something to show off—it was simply another tool.
His mother watched him with a soft, uncertain look.
"You're a good boy," she said quietly. "Just… different."
Aren paused. "Different how?"
She hesitated, searching for words. "You feel distant sometimes."
"From what?"
"From everyone."
Aren considered this. After a moment, he said, "I don't feel distant."
"I know," she murmured. "That's what worries me."
That evening, the family ate dinner around a small wooden table. Lio spoke about chores, villagers, and rumors from nearby settlements. Their mother laughed. Their father grunted and offered short comments. The room felt warm.
Aren watched them.
He noted how emotions moved between them like invisible threads: joy, irritation, worry. He could see these shifts clearly in their tone, posture, and breath. Yet he felt none of it himself. He understood their feelings by observation alone.
To him, it was like watching a fire from a distance—bright, warm, unreachable.
After the meal, Lio asked, "Aren, want to come by the fields tomorrow? Some kids are gathering berries."
"No," Aren said simply.
Lio sighed. Their mother shot him a look, quietly urging patience. Aren didn't see the point. He wasn't avoiding anyone; he simply had no interest in idle activities.
When the house grew quiet, Aren slipped outside. Night had settled over the village. The Willowshade Tree loomed in the distance, its form barely visible under the moonlight.
Aren stood still, listening.
The world at night had a different rhythm—soft, slow, clear. He liked it more.
He touched the ground lightly with his foot. The Dao threads beneath the soil pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat deep within the earth.
"Why?" he whispered.
Why did these energies exist?Why could he sense them when others couldn't?