The dawn mist clung to the bamboo groves like silk, rolling over the still waters of the Lotus Basin. Villagers were already awake—casting nets, hanging herbs, and sweeping their humble porches. But on the southern edge of the village, atop a mossy stone platform carved with forgotten glyphs, a boy stood still as a statue.
Qingsai.
Twelve years old. Quiet, observant. And different.
As he meditated beside the ancient Spirit Pillar, his body trembled. Not from cold—but from a feeling that had haunted him since birth: something inside him was trying to wake up.
He'd always felt it—like a candle burning behind a wall of fog.
His breath slowed. The world faded. Then—
> "Breathe, not just with lungs, but with flame."
A voice. Soft. Feminine. Ancient. And yet familiar.
Qingsai opened his eyes. A flicker of blue fire danced at his fingertips. No matches. No friction. Just thought—and heat.
He gasped. The flame vanished.
"What… was that?" he whispered.
Behind him, the wind rustled the bamboo.