[The video continues…]
The clip resumed, and the images on the heavenly curtain grew softer, more intimate. The woman's sentence trailed off, but Yu Yuanzhen needed no further explanation. He looked at the tiny figure in the swaddling clothes with a father's pain and tenderness, and when his hand brushed the infant's small palm, his face tightened with a mixture of sorrow and resolve.
After a long, silent moment, he spoke to the caretaker with steady authority. "Take good care of him," he said.
Then, without hesitation, Yu Yuanzhen set the Sect's affairs in order. He delegated his duties to trusted Elders and prepared to leave. The camera followed him as he carried his son away from the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Sect, traveling across the Douluo Continent in search of any hope, any remedy that might restore the boy's mind.
He visited countless masters and families, seeking answers. At last, the Ye Family—keepers of the Nine‑Hearted Flowering Crabapple Spirit—offered a diagnosis.
"This child's spiritual power is astonishing," the Head of the Ye Family told him. "But his brain is not yet mature enough to bear such power. That is why he appears as he does."
The words landed like a blow. "If he can regain his wits and awaken a spiritual‑type Spirit, his future could be extraordinary," the Head continued, but his tone was cautious. "Yet you must not hold too much hope. Recovery in such cases is rare."
Yu Yuanzhen's expression darkened, but he thanked the Ye Family and returned home. When he relayed the diagnosis to the Elders, many of them quietly shifted their stance. Some suggested the practical, cold solution: send the child away while Yu Yuanzhen's attachment was still fresh, let distance blunt the pain and the embarrassment.
In the Black World, viewers scoffed at the Elders' readiness to abandon the boy. Bibi Dong's face burned with contempt for those who would cast off a child so easily. Ning Fengzhi watched with a neutral, unreadable expression, while Gu Rong laughed at the thought of the old dragon later weeping in regret.
But Yu Yuanzhen would not hear of it. The heavenly curtain showed his answer plainly.
"Xiaogang is my son," he declared. "That fact does not change because of his condition. He lives with me, and I will arrange for his care. Do not speak of sending him away again."
With a single wave, he decided the boy's fate.
Unseen by the Elders and the onlookers, a faint spark of awareness flickered in the child's vacant eyes as his father made that choice. Days passed into months, and the child grew. He remained outwardly dull, often sitting by the flowerbed outside the family home, staring into the distance as if listening to a world no one else could hear.
Each time, a large, warm hand would settle on his head. The palm was firm and steady, and the touch made the child feel safe. That hand belonged to Yu Yuanzhen. Though his son was slow and often mocked, Yu Yuanzhen never once looked down on him. After his daily cultivation and the endless duties of the Sect, he would come to the boy's side and speak to him—stories of the Douluo Continent, simple lessons, recent events—always in a measured, gentle voice, as if speaking too quickly might frighten the child.
It became a ritual. Every day, without fail, Yu Yuanzhen sat with his son and told him about the world he would one day walk. The father's voice was steady and patient, a constant presence in the boy's life.
Watching the heavenly curtain, Bibi Dong felt a sharp ache. She had never seen this side of Yu Yuanzhen so plainly before. He did not know then that the boy would one day recover his wits, that he would become a Titled Douluo. He did not know the future. His devotion was simple and pure: a father's love for his child.
Yu Xiaogang, who had lived another life before merging with this infant, watched the scenes with a quiet, private sorrow. He remembered being an orphan in his previous life, never having known a parent's care. Here, in this world, Yu Yuanzhen's companionship became an anchor. Even when the child's body could not obey, his mind—carrying the memories of an adult—felt every word, every touch. He could not move as he wished, but he understood. He felt the warmth of being wanted, of being protected.
"That's why I never wanted to disappoint Father," Yu Xiaogang murmured, the words barely audible.
The heavenly curtain moved forward. Years slipped by. The boy reached five, the age when his Martial Soul Awakening would soon arrive. Despite the mockery and whispers—people laughing that a Titled Douluo had sired a fool—Yu Yuanzhen paid them no mind. He continued his steady presence, his patient lessons, his unshakable faith.
Then, one ordinary day as Yu Yuanzhen spoke of two geniuses from the Clear Sky Sect, a voice cut through the routine.
"Father…"
It was tender and clear, a sound that made Yu Yuanzhen freeze. He turned, and the camera captured the moment in close detail: the child who had always seemed vacant now looked at him with bright, lively eyes. The dullness was gone. The spark that had once only flickered had become a flame.
Yu Yuanzhen's face changed—astonishment, relief, and a joy so deep it seemed to steady the world. The years of worry, the delegations, the ridicule—all of it collapsed into that single instant of recognition. The father who had refused to abandon his son now saw the first true sign that his faith might be rewarded.
The heavenly curtain held that image for a beat longer, letting the audience feel the weight of the moment: a father's patience, a son's return, and the quiet power of love that refused to yield to doubt.