Six months passed.
For Lu Haotian, those months felt both long and short. Long when he trained alone in the courtyard until his arms trembled and his palms blistered. Short when the days blurred together, each one ending the same way, with a wooden sword laid carefully beside his bed.
He still trained every day.
Not because anyone pushed him. Not because the elders praised him. He trained because it filled the quiet space his parents had left behind.
Mei Nian was still there.
She still worried too much.
"Young Master, slow down!" she complained one afternoon, crouching near the edge of the courtyard with a bowl of water. "If you train like this every day, you'll break!"
"I won't," Lu Haotian replied, swinging the sword once more before stopping. Sweat rolled down his forehead. He wiped it with his sleeve, looking calmer than he felt.
"That's what everyone says before breaking," she muttered, then quickly added, "I mean… please don't break, Young Master."
He glanced at her and snorted softly. "You're noisy today."
"Because Young Master doesn't listen," she said proudly.
Despite everything, moments like this still existed. Moments where he forgot, just a little, that the world had grown colder.
Then one morning, the clan bell rang.
The sound echoed through Lu Family's manor, deep and solemn. Not an alarm. Not a celebration. A formal summons.
Lu Haotian was eating when Mei Nian nearly spilled his porridge.
"Young Master! The bell!" she said, eyes wide. "The big one!"
"I heard it," he said, placing the bowl down carefully. His expression did not change, but his heart beat faster.
Soon after, a servant arrived.
"All children of the Lu Family below the age of ten," the man announced stiffly, "are to gather at the inner compound within one hour."
Group sparring day arrived with unusual tension.
Children were paired according to strength, but in truth, everyone knew there was only one pairing people wanted to see.
Lu Haotian stood quietly near the weapon rack.
"Lu Haotian."
He looked up.
"Lu Zhen."
A murmur rippled through the courtyard.
Lu Zhen was a year older, tall for his age, already at the seventh layer of Body Tempering. He was known for aggression and confidence—and for never backing down.
Lu Zhen grinned as he stepped forward. "So you're the ninth-layer kid."
Lu Haotian nodded. "Mm."
That calm response irritated Lu Zhen immediately.
"Don't hold back," Lu Zhen said, gripping his wooden sword. "I won't."
The instructor raised his hand. "Begin!"
Lu Zhen rushed forward without hesitation, sword arcing downward with raw strength. His strike was fast, driven by pride and anger.
Lu Haotian stepped aside.
Just one step.
The sword slammed into empty air.
Lu Zhen twisted, attacking again, then again—three consecutive strikes, each heavier than the last. Children watching held their breath.
Lu Haotian retreated smoothly, his feet never crossing, his breathing never breaking.
Then—
Tap.
Lu Haotian's wooden sword rested lightly against Lu Zhen's shoulder.
Silence.
Lu Zhen froze, eyes wide.
"What—"
"Enough," the instructor said calmly.
Lu Zhen lowered his weapon slowly, face burning. It wasn't humiliation he felt—it was shock.
"Your strength is good. But you overcommit." the instructor continued.
Children erupted into hushed chatter.
Across the courtyard, Lu Chenfeng's nails dug into his palms.
Lu Zhen lost in under ten breaths.
And he smiles like it means nothing.
Several children rushed toward Lu Haotian afterward, curiosity overcoming caution.
"How did you move like that?"
"Can you teach me?"
Before Lu Haotian could answer, an instructor intervened. "Enough. Return to formation."
Lu Chenfeng turned away, expression dark.
He had trained just as hard.
He had endured just as much pain.
So why was it never him.