The rest period before Tendon Braiding was brief – no more than a few weeks – but it was enough for the household to notice the change.
At six years old, Tai Lung no longer looked like a child in repose. Training had stretched him early. His limbs were long, his shoulders narrow but correctly set, his posture unconsciously disciplined. Sitting still, he resembled a lanky ten-year-old who had not yet filled out, rather than a boy barely past infancy.
Tan Na Yu noticed it first at the dining table.
Initially, she thought nothing of it. He had always done it. From the time he was an infant, his fingers would move when his mind wandered – light taps against wood, stone, silk. A habit so constant it had faded into the background of her awareness.
That morning, however, something was different.
He was not eating. His gaze was unfocused, directed in nowhere. And his fingers were not tapping randomly.
They were precise.
Tap. Tap-tap.
Pause.
Tap—tap—tap.
Tan Na Yu's hand stilled.
She listened.
It was a melody.
Subtle. Structured. Repeating with variation. The rhythm shifted just enough each cycle to suggest intention rather than lackluster repetition. It was not a tune she recognized – and that, more than anything else, unsettled her.
She had lived for centuries.
She had studied music across mortal realms, immortal continents, and half-ruined traditions salvaged from higher planes. She had catalogued ancient scores, reconstructed lost instruments, and composed pieces that aligned qi and calmed fractured souls.
She had never heard this before.
Her eyes followed his fingers now, tracing the pattern. The spacing. The emphasis. The unconscious correction when one tap landed a fraction too hard.
Understanding crept in slowly.
This isn't a simple habit, she realized. It's preparation.
Rhythmic conditioning. Fine motor training before contact with an instrument.
A flicker of shame passed through her.
How had she missed this?
She thought, briefly and uncomfortably, of the bonding ritual. Had something of her own talent bled into him then? Or was this simply fate placing a child with such aptitude directly into her care?
She could not tell.
What she could recognize was the pattern itself. She had done the same as a child, long before her music tutors allowed her near strings or reeds. Endless tapping on tabletops, on floorboards, on her own thigh – until rhythm settled into muscle and thought ceased to be a barrier.
She watched him more closely.
His expression was distant, but not vacant. The tapping continued, steady and unconscious.
What Tan Na Yu did not know – what she could not know – was that in another life, Roman had been forced to learn piano and harp by a demanding mother who believed discipline preceded talent. He had resented it at first. Endured it. Then, quietly, grown fond of it. Music had become the background of his thinking. When he planned, when he analyzed, when he waited, melodies surfaced.
Even now, in a different world, the habit remains.
In his mind played Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2.
Tan Na Yu reached out and rested her hand lightly over his.
The tapping stopped.
He looked up, startled, then mildly embarrassed, as if caught doing something private.
"How long have you been doing that?" she asked gently.
He hesitated. "I don't know. Always, maybe."
That, she realized, was the truth.
Tan Na Yu did not speak immediately after that morning.
She finished her meal in silence, her gaze occasionally resting on her son. By the time Tai Lung noticed, the decision had already been made. She reached out and brushed her fingers lightly against his temple, just enough to pull him out of his inward focus.
"Would you like to see what I do today?" she asked.
He looked up, surprised. "Your work?"
She nodded.
He had never seen her work. Not truly. He knew she was powerful, important, and obeyed. He knew people deferred to her instinctively. But what that power consisted of beyond personal power, command, and influence was still vague to him.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
"I have a daily meeting first," she continued. "I'll return in two hours. After that, I'll take you with me."
She rose, already turning away, the matter settled.
True to her word, she returned precisely two hours later. There was no rush in her movements, no visible sign of what had occupied her time. When she told Tai Lung it was time to go, she did so as if this had been planned long in advance.
They left the manor together.
The paths of the Eternal Spring Court curved gently through layered gardens and open corridors. As Tan Na Yu passed, the world adjusted around her. The disciples halted mid-step and bowed. Servants lowered their heads. Guests straightened and made their way without being asked.
Tai Lung noticed.
He lifted his chin and, with careful deliberation, stepped half a pace ahead of her. His back straightened, his hands folded behind him in what he imagined to be a dignified posture. He walked as if the Court belonged to him already, and as if everyone present owed him something personal and overdue.
Tan Na Yu watched him for several steps.
Then she laughed.
It was soft and unguarded, and Tai Lung glanced back, momentarily unsure whether he had done something wrong.
"Very well," she said, amused. "Lead the way, then, Young Master."
They reached the Music Pavilion soon after.
It was not enclosed in the usual sense. Instead, it opened into a wide, cultivated space that resembled a park more than a hall. Peach, cherry, and apple trees grew in cultivated harmony. A clear lake occupied the center, its surface broken only by drifting petals. Platforms and shaded terraces were arranged throughout, each dedicated to a different discipline.
As Tan Na Yu entered, every disciple and educator present bowed.
Then they noticed the child.
"So this is Elder Tan's son?"
"He's tall for his age."
"How adorable."
Tai Lung accepted the attention without embarrassment. His voice, when he spoke, deepened slightly, his words measured and solemn in imitation of the elders he had observed.
"Continue," he said gravely. "I will… supervise."
Laughter rippled through the pavilion, restrained but genuine.
Tan Na Yu shook her head, smiling, and guided him to a stone bench overlooking the lake.
"Do you know what my work is?" she asked.
He hesitated. "You… command people?"
She raised a brow. "That is a side effect."
"I am a Music Elder," she said. "One of my responsibilities is the creation of new compositions. Another is teaching the Court's disciples how to perform."
Only then did Tai Lung truly look around.
Not at the scenery, but at the people.
Here, a woman practiced a stringed instrument, fingers moving with graceful restraint. There, a pair of disciples worked through a wind duet, breath carefully synchronized. Further off, percussion echoed softly.
Tai Lung sat still.
For the rest of the day, he did not move.
He watched as his mother played. One instrument, then another. Each demanded a different posture, a different use of hands. Her fingers shifted seamlessly from strength to delicacy, from speed to stillness.
As dusk settled and the pavilion grew quieter, Tan Na Yu set the instrument aside and turned to him.
"Did you like it?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"Would you like to learn?"
"Yes."
She studied him for a moment. "Which instrument?"
Tai Lung looked around once more. His gaze lingered on a long zither resting near the lake, its strings catching the fading light.
"That one," he said. "The guzheng."
Tan Na Yu nodded.
It seemed that the Dragon Warrior Codex would not be the only discipline shaping her son for now. Truly – wen and wu.