When Ye Xai was a child he often wore baggy unflattering clothes and didn't eat much because of his family's poor financial situation all his clothes didn't fit because he was a frail skinny boy.His family was not as successful as the other sects which subjected him to frequent bullying from other kids to the point of coming home with black eyes and sometimes even broken bones but they couldn't do anything since the bully's since they were from bigger sects.
Ye Zais Father often didn't understand why Ye Zai was so weak so he blamed Ye Zais wounds on Ye Zai often not caring about Ye Zai coming home hurt.
His father also would often drink and get drunk and beat him.
But Ye Zai still loved him and on day Ye Zai's father got in trouble with on e of the bigger sects and Ye Zai took the blame.
Thus began the father son bonding.
Ye Zai and his father often went out into town to shop for new clothes for Ye Zai and more food.
Ye Zai loved spending time with his father as they were not always so close.
Ye Zais mother began to get sick so his father started taking care of his mother,Ye Zai understood his mother didn't have much time so it made sense for his father to be with his mother more often the with him.
Back in the present.
In the endless dark, where light had long since folded itself into nothing, Ye Zai sat. Not on a throne, not upon a mountain, but within a place he had shaped from his own will a vast, shifting cradle of space, time, and essence. The air there pulsed softly, as if the cosmos itself had a heartbeat.
He breathed. Or perhaps it was the realm breathing with him a slow, drawn-out rhythm that stirred the edge of creation. Around him, strands of silver light and shadow twisted together, patterns emerging and dissolving before they ever fully became. He reached out with a hand, and the fabric of space shivered, stretched, and stitched itself anew.
With every flick of his fingers, he tugged on the threads of what was. Time bent backward, curled inward, snapped forward. His senses stretched across centuries and blinked across aeons in a breath. He was learning, not just to exist here, but to move to make the past and future listen, to carve the shape of the present with nothing but his thought.
But something inside stirred with quiet frustration.
He could feel it: the weight pressing just beyond his reach. Like a sky he had not yet learned to break, a horizon that still refused to fall away. His hands, when they shaped matter and thought, were not yet as sure as they would one day be. His realm, though vast, still answered slowly, as if reluctant to obey his deeper impulses.
A flicker trembled through the vastness. Ye Zai closed his eyes. Around him, entire dimensions collapsed and spun anew, reshaped like clay on a potter's wheel. He crafted worlds here, not as playthings, but as instruments each plane a string on a growing instrument he was still learning to tune.
"Not yet," he murmured, his voice swallowed by the void.
The power inside him was stirring, rising but not complete. He felt it like a storm far off, the gathering tension in the air before the break. His hands still lacked the touch to silence the winds of all existence. His mind still reached, but not yet far enough. His creations still flickered and flickered out, their echoes too faint.
And so, he sat. And shaped. And stretched.
Space curled tighter beneath his feet. Time thickened, folding layer upon layer, compressing under his touch. Dimensional walls groaned as he pressed his will through them, but they did not yet shatter only bent, only trembled.
He worked in silence, the weight of his half-formed mastery heavy on his shoulders. Not yet the king of all things. Not yet the breaker of every boundary. But close so very close.
And somewhere in the deep folds of that self-made realm, the first hints of the storm that was Ye Zai's future stirred, whispering to him of the power still to come.