Time slipped by like water through fingers. Andrew's third birthday came and went with little fanfare—Eva prepared a small cake, Lucy brought a hand-carved wooden cultivation diagram that doubled as a puzzle, and Andrew thanked them both with the serious demeanor that continued to unnerve and impress in equal measure.
The true celebration, unspoken between Lucy and her pupil, was his completion of skin cultivation. Where most children took a couple years to fully temper their skin, Andrew had methodically strengthened every inch of his skin in less than a year. The morning he demonstrated by allowing Lucy to strike his forearm with a training rod—the wood splintering while his skin remained unmarked—she'd nearly wept with pride.
"We begin muscle cultivation today," Lucy announced during their afternoon session, spreading a new set of diagrams across Eva's kitchen table. "This requires greater precision. You'll need to isolate each muscle group, starting with the smallest ones in your fingers."
Andrew nodded, already examining the pathways she'd drawn. "The energy circulation appears more complex than skin cultivation. These branches here—" he pointed to a junction near the wrist—"they feed both the flexor and extensor muscles?"
Lucy suppressed a smile. Children his age shouldn't know anatomical terms like "flexor" and "extensor," yet Andrew spoke them as naturally as asking for water. She'd stopped questioning his mysterious well of knowledge months ago.
"Exactly. The difficulty lies in directing energy to strengthen the muscle fibers without overstimulating the tendons. If you rush, you risk permanent damage."
In her private reports to the Matriarchy, Lucy documented Andrew's progress with meticulous detail but careful understatement. Even so, her supervisors had begun requesting monthly in-person assessments rather than quarterly ones. The attention made Lucy nervous.
After their latest evaluation, Elder Ming had pulled Lucy aside, her voice low and urgent. "We're increasing your allocation to seven merit points weekly."
Lucy had nearly stumbled in shock. Seven points weekly? Most students at her level celebrated earning five points in a month of grueling study and practice. Some noble-born students used family connections to secure two or three points weekly, but seven was unheard of for someone of her modest background.
"Thank you, Elder, but—"
"The boy's progress is exceptional," Elder Ming interrupted. "You've guided him well. This compensation reflects the Matriarchy's recognition of your service."
What remained unsaid but understood: Andrew represented something exceedingly valuable, and Lucy was being paid to maintain her silence as much as her teaching.
Back at the academy, her sudden wealth of merit points generated whispers. Lucy began spacing out her point expenditures, buying cultivation resources gradually rather than all at once, claiming she earned them through specialized research projects.
"You're tutoring the next Matriarch's secret child, aren't you?" her roommate teased one evening.
Lucy laughed too loudly. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just teaching a village child basic techniques."
But in quiet moments, Lucy refined her long-term strategy. She meticulously documented every aspect of Andrew's training that only she understood—his unique energy fluctuations, how certain meridians responded differently than standard texts described, the specific visualizations that accelerated his progress. She made herself irreplaceable.
When Andrew successfully strengthened his first muscle group—the intricate muscles of his left hand—weeks ahead of Lucy's already ambitious schedule, she squeezed his shoulder with genuine affection.
"Well done," she said, meaning far more than just the cultivation milestone.
Andrew, for his part, observed Lucy with a detached curiosity, a constant hum of analysis beneath his youthful exterior. She was, to his adult-like sensibilities, a brat. A diligent brat, certainly, but a child all the same. Yet, he saw past the girlish enthusiasm. He noted the way her brow furrowed in concentration when explaining complicated energy flows, the faint dark circles under her eyes on mornings after extended sessions with her own studies. Her dedication to his progress far exceeded the typical duties of a tutor.
She was good, genuinely good. Too young, too transparent to mask her true nature. Lucy possessed an earnestness that shone from her, unburdened by the layers of pretense he sensed in most cultivated adults. Smart, hardworking, nice. And undeniably beautiful, in a vibrant, youthful way that hinted at the woman she would become.
He knew his future would feature a constant stream of women, a predictable consequence of his emergent power and unique disposition. Most would be superficial, drawn to his aura rather than the person beneath it. Lucy would not be one of those. She was a different category altogether. A true friend. He decided she would be among the select few he would genuinely befriend, no ulterior motives, no shallow connections. Their bond would be simple, honest.
He even entertained the thought of her naked form, a fleeting image in his mind, detached and clinical. It would be a distant future, a natural progression of intimacy between two people who trusted each other implicitly. Not now. Now, he wanted simply to solidify their friendship, to make the boundaries clear. When he befriended someone, it was them, truly and completely.
"Lucy," he spoke her name, a quiet interruption to her detailed explanation of muscle fiber structure.
She looked up, her vivid eyes meeting his. "Hmm?"
"You're a good teacher," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of childish inflection.
A faint blush touched her cheeks. She shrugged, an awkward, girlish gesture. "It's my job."
"You do more than your job requires." His gaze held hers, unwavering. "You truly want me to succeed."
She shifted her weight, picking at a loose thread on her tunic. "Of course, I do. You're a gifted student, Andrew. It makes my work easy." Her voice contained a tremor he hadn't heard before, a hint of vulnerability.
"That's not true," he countered, his words precise. "My temperament is difficult. I ask too many questions. My progress breaks normal expectations. This creates scrutiny for you."
Lucy opened her mouth, then closed it. She knew he understood more than he let on, but hearing him articulate it so plainly still surprised her. She could not deny the truth in his words.
"What's your point?" she finally asked, her voice softer now, less defensive.
"My point is," Andrew continued, leaning forward slightly, "I appreciate your efforts. I consider you my friend. My first friend." He watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. His tone was not one of childish affection, but of a considered, deliberate declaration.
Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her face. A small smile, unbidden, spread across her lips. "Your first friend, huh?" She paused, glancing down at the diagrams before returning her gaze to him. "Well, I'm glad to be it." Her smile grew, reaching her eyes. "You're not so bad for a weird kid, yourself."
He gave a minute nod, a silent acknowledgment of the new dynamic between them. He had made his intentions clear. The foundation was laid.
Andrew continued his life as he had planned. He worked through his cultivation techniques, completing his current level, muscle cultivation, in less than two years. When Lucy examined his body during his final muscle tempering, her fingers traced the defined lines of his biceps and pectorals with an almost reverent touch. The boy embodied physical perfection.
Their friendship deepened. Lucy, once formal and reserved, now dropped her guard around him. She arrived at their sessions with a relaxed slouch, often kicking off her sandals before settling onto the mat. She chatted about her classes, the petty squabbles among her roommates, the latest academy gossip. Andrew listened, offering concise, insightful comments that often startled her with their perception. He liked her casualness; it felt honest.
One afternoon, a few weeks after Andrew turned five, he posed a question.
"Lucy," he tilted his head, his dark eyes fixed on her. "What is the difference between men and women?"
She blinked. "Well, for one, women usually have—"
"No, I mean internally," he interrupted. "Physically, I understand. But emotionally, socially. What are the dynamics of a relationship?"
Lucy floundered, her composure slipping. "Relationships? Well, men and women… they… they connect on a deeper level. They… they build families."
"And how do they build these families?" Andrew pursued, his tone utterly innocent. "What mechanisms are involved?"
A blush crept up Lucy's neck, darkening her cheeks. She stammered, searching for words, for any explanation that wouldn't sound utterly ridiculous coming from her, a fifteen-year-old, to a five-year-old. "There are… certain acts… of intimacy—"
"Elaborate." Andrew's face remained a mask of focused inquiry.
Her breath hitched. She imagined trying to explain the mechanics of procreation to the boy, his serious gaze dissecting every faltering word. Her mind raced, grasping for a suitable analogy, a euphemism, anything to avoid the stark biological truth.
"And how exactly does a man know what to do with a woman, and vice versa?" he pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Is there a manual? Instinct?"
Her jaw dropped. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, wishing the earth would swallow her whole. When she opened them, Andrew's lips twitched. A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and unexpectedly mature.
"Relax, Lucy," he said, a genuine smile spreading across his face, the first genuine smile she'd seen from him. "It was a joke."
Her embarrassment vanished, replaced by a surge of playful indignation. She reached out, her finger extending, and gave him a light poke on his forehead. "You little demon!"
Andrew threw his head back and laughed, a full, unrestrained sound that echoed in the small room. It was the first time she'd seen him laugh with such abandon. The moment felt like a breakthrough, a new chapter in their unusual bond.
Their new, more comfortable dynamic did not slow his progress. Andrew moved onto bone forging, the most arduous and painful stage of physical cultivation. Yet, he faced it with the same unwavering discipline. Lucy found herself coming over more frequently, sometimes just to chat with Eva, but mostly to sit quietly as Andrew meditated, the low hum of his energy circulation filling the room.
"You really spoil him, don't you?" Eva observed one afternoon, watching Lucy watch Andrew.
Lucy smiled. "He's not so bad, underneath that seriousness."
"He's always been… different," Eva mused, stirring a pot of stew. "From the moment he was born. Like he always knew more than he let on."
Lucy nodded, a knowing glint in her eye. She decided it was a secret they both shared, a silent understanding about the extraordinary child in their midst.