Chapter 231: Origins Relived: The Orphanage
Su Tianhao stood before the orphanage gate, his tiny brows furrowed in confusion and fear. He stood in silence, uncertain what to do. His father's last words echoed in his mind like the toll of a distant bell.
Be good, Shengzi.
As the sun climbed into the sky, the double doors of the orphanage creaked open and two figures emerged—a boy and a young woman—chatting casually as they approached the gate.
The boy appeared to be aroud ten years old. The young woman was in her mid-twenties, dressed in a nun's uniform.
The boy paused the moment he spotted Su Tianhao standing at the gate. He had short black hair, obsidian eyes that carried both intelligence and childlike innocence, and a slim but healthy build—clearly not malnourished. A quiet testament to the orphanage's reputable standing.
"Sister Xinxin," the boy said, tugging the young woman's sleeve. "There's a boy at the gate."
The nun—Xinxin—turned with a raised eyebrow, her eyes carrying clear curiosity. She approached with measured steps.
"Hey, little one. What are you doing out here all alone?"
Su Tianhao looked up at her, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "My dad… he brought me here and left. He hasn't come back."
Xinxin's brows drew together, her expression carrying genuine pity. "Did he say anything before he left?"
"He said I should be good," he pondered for a moment before continuing. "He also asked me to find him. One day."
"Oh, poor boy." Her voice softened with emotion. "Come with us. You'll be living here now. And if your father comes back for you, you can leave. What do you think?"
Su Tianhao stared at her in silence—his expression guarded, wary. Yuanling had taught him not to trust strangers.
Seeing his hesitation, the boy beside the nun stepped forward with a wide, easy smile. "Don't think too hard about it. There are plenty of children like you here. It's better than standing outside waiting, isn't it?"
"Really?" Su Tianhao said, still not fully convinced.
"Yeah."
The boy's smile was warm and genuine—carrying enough sincerity that it moved Su Tianhao before he could decide whether to let it.
"I agree," he said in a small voice.
"Good choice." The boy extended his hand. "My name is Chuan. What's yours?"
"My name is Tianhao. But my dad calls me Shengzi—I guess I have two names." He held up two fingers with quiet seriousness.
"I prefer Tianhao," Chuan said. "So what do you say? Come inside—I'll show you around and introduce you to everyone."
"Thank you," Su Tianhao said, offering a small, formal bow. Another lesson from Yuanling: always show appreciation.
Chuan took his hand and led him through the gates. Xinxin followed from behind—and while she smiled warmly at the new arrival, her eyes carried a quiet, calculating quality, already turning over the financial implications of one more child.
Young Su Tianhao didn't notice.
The present Su Tianhao did.
---
Just then, the vision shifted—away from his own memory and into his father's. It arrived with a quiet solemnity, carrying the weight of something final.
High above the orphanage, hidden within the clouds, Tunlong Chenyuan watched as his son walked away into an unfamiliar building with total strangers. His expression was unreadable. But the stillness in those golden draconic eyes said everything he would never say aloud.
He could tell the boy would be fine. That judgment was enough.
"Shengzi," he said—to no one but the wind. "Grow well. Live well. Live peacefully." A breath. "The balance of this world shifted with your arrival, and I am certain the world will produce more geniuses in response—to restore what your existence disrupted. But they will all become nothing more than stepping stones beneath your feet." His voice grew heavier, carrying the particular gravity of someone who could see further than most. "Enjoy the peace while it lasts. It won't be for long." A pause. "I'm sorry I won't be there to witness it."
His words lingered. The wind moved through the town—cold, quiet, as if the world itself had heard and chosen not to answer.
Then he was gone. Vanished without a trace, as though he had never been there at all.
The memory ended.
Su Tianhao reached further—searching for what came after, where his father had gone, what had followed. But there was nothing. The memory was sealed, at least for now.
He let it go. It was useless to dwell on what he couldn't reach. He turned to his own memories instead.
---
The orphanage unfolded before him.
As they moved through the compound, Chuan patiently showed Su Tianhao around and explained everything. The grounds were wide and well-kept, divided into four sections with the orphanage building at the center. The front two sections held a small grassy field with a heap of sand against the wall and several wooden play structures for the children, alongside a shaded area of planted trees and wooden benches where the nuns rested. The back sections were more practical—one used for growing crops and vegetables, the other housing a sheep pen that served as a modest source of income for the orphanage.
The interior was simple and clean. Polished walls. Wide hallways lined with doors. Chuan, still holding Su Tianhao's hand, led him to the house master's office alongside Xinxin. The process moved smoothly—a few questions that yielded mostly vague answers, after which the house master accepted Su Tianhao with a warm smile, calling him sharp and intelligent.
The present Su Tianhao noted the man's expression carefully.
The warmth was real. The welcome was genuine.
---
The days that followed were warm and peaceful.
Su Tianhao was introduced to the other children—around two hundred of them, ranging from four to twelve years of age. He was by far the youngest, but he carried himself with a calm demeanor and a quiet intelligence far beyond his years. Within days, he had earned the genuine affection of everyone around him—the house master, the nuns, the children. They accepted him wholeheartedly, as though he had always been part of them.
A month passed and Su Tianhao turned two.
By then he had familiarized himself with the rhythm of the orphanage entirely. Breakfast was served at seven in the morning, after prayers. Then came the daily chores—sweeping, washing dishes, mopping, feeding the sheep. The sheep feeding was coveted enough that children argued over who would get the privilege each day. Lunch arrived at three in the afternoon, followed by free time to play or accompany the nuns on errands. Dinner came at seven, and afterward the nuns would take turns telling stories under the moonlight before the children were required to be in bed by nine.
It was a simple life. Carefree and unhurried.
Just like that, three years passed with the same gentle routine and nothing eventful at all.
---
Su Tianhao had grown considerably taller by now, his early childhood softness replaced by a lean, vigorous build that radiated health and quiet vitality. His black hair had grown long, falling down his back. His golden eyes carried a calm, unshakeable confidence and intelligence that had no business belonging to a five-year-old.
During these three years, he had become the golden child of the orphanage—admired and welcomed by everyone without exception. He and Chuan had grown inseparable, their bond deepening with each passing month until Chuan had become something more than a friend. Something closer.
Somewhere along the way, Su Tianhao had come to accept—quietly, without ceremony—that his parents were not coming back. He never said it aloud. But the acceptance was there, settled beneath the surface of his daily life like something he had put down and decided not to pick back up. Every now and then his hand would drift to the jade pendant at his chest, and he would hold it for a moment before letting go. His memories of his father and of Yuanling had grown distant, replaced gradually by the faces and voices of the orphanage—his new family.
Everything was fine. There was no reason to look back.
But one day, the bright and luminous world went dark.
The house master was removed. A new one was put in his place.
The era of warmth was over.
What came next would leave marks that no inherited memory, no cultivation technique, and no amount of time would ever fully erase.