Wandao 001
Stirring Undercurrents · A Father and Son
In the early stirrings of spring—when the third lunar month had just begun to breathe—beneath the northern slopes of Spiritwood Ridge, a hush lingered along the still flow of a veiled creek, folded deep into the forest's roots.
There lay the village of Niupu, a nameless moss-like patch clinging to the waist of the mountain. By daylight, it was overlooked, nearly forgotten; by night, not even the wind cared to linger. From the northwest, mountain mists drifted in, heavy with the scent of damp soil and cold fog, cloaking the settlement like an unseen tide roofing the houses in silence. In the far distance, the last slender thread of twilight was quietly devoured by the looming peaks.
At the edge of the village, where the wildwoods gathered close and unspoken things stirred beneath the soil, stood the Wan family's home. Its rear leaned into ancient woodland, quiet as breath held in sleep. Two camphor trees, older than memory, stood vigil at the gate, their limbs bowed like sleeves of an age-worn robe. The house itself, built from time-hardened wood, breathed a faint glow through bamboo-latticed windows, their weave delicate and dimly lit from within.
There were no lanterns. Only the brazier beneath the hearth pulsed with dim red light, its glow ebbing and surging like a beast's breath—low, ceaseless, and alive. A faint gurgle rose now and then, like the murmur of a hidden heart, quietly enduring.
Wan Xiaochuan sat at the edge of a short table beside the hearth. His robe—green as the misted pines outside—clung damp to his shoulders, half from the moisture lingering in the air, half from sweat not yet dried. He leaned slightly back, not fully relaxed, not fully alert, a posture of tension disguised as fatigue. Before him stood a table dulled with age, its lacquer long peeled away. Across the surface ran a few errant blade marks, each carving shallow but slanted, cutting faintly through the grain to reveal the fading traces of spiritual runes once engraved.
Three dishes sat upon the table, untouched and quietly waiting. One plate of mountain greens, their hue dark as ink soaked into silk. One grilled trout, its silver skin burst open along the spine like cracks struck by thunder. And one bowl of rice porridge, steam curling upward in gossamer threads, pale and slow like drifting cloud-filaments. A simple meal, austere and silent—yet no hands reached out to partake.
Wan Liqiao sat opposite him. His temples were dusted with white, and though his robe was plain blue, within the cuffs faint sword patterns shimmered in near-invisible thread—threads that shifted with even the slightest motion, as though ready to cleave through air. His brows hung like sheathed blades, and his gaze, deep and unmoving, was like the still water that pooled before the Wan family's door—placid on the surface, yet veiling hidden currents below.
"Xiaochuan," he spoke at last, his voice low and measured, like an old wooden door easing ajar. "Have your cultivations... met resistance of late?"
Wan Xiaochuan did not immediately respond. His fingers remained at the rim of the porridge bowl, knuckles pale with tension. Only after a long breath—drawn as though seeking some quiet landing within himself—did he reply, voice low and restrained:
"...The flow of qi's grown sluggish. My dantian aches at times—as if something's wedged inside. The pain... wakes me, even in dreams."
His tone was steady, but the slight tremble at the end betrayed the depth of his suffering.
Wan Liqiao showed no surprise. He merely nodded, slowly, like confirming something already long understood.
"Your dantian bears an innate anomaly," he said. "A barrier, sealing the flow of breath. It is not a flaw—nor is it a wound. It is a buried strength, a rare and latent gift."
"But this pain... it's not something ordinary people can bear."
Xiaochuan lowered his eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper, as if even the embers might overhear.
Wan Liqiao did not reply. He simply reached for the iron tongs by the brazier and stirred the charcoal. The embers crackled softly; a single spark flared blue, hung briefly in the air—then fell.
"These coals," he said, gaze fixed on the heart of the fire, "when they burn their hottest, they split. Only then does the fire-vein within begin to speak."
"A man is no different. Without rupture, without pain—how else would one glimpse the true breadth and ferocity of his sea of qi?"
Xiaochuan remained silent. He had grown up in this house, steeped in his father's words—but tonight, those words felt sharper than ever, like blades sheathed in speech.
Suddenly, Wan Liqiao turned. His voice cut through the air like a falling axe:
"Do you not see? Your mother and your sister... their hearts are not here—not in this house, not with you."
The blow landed like thunder. Xiaochuan's back stiffened. He looked up at his father—not in shock, not in denial, but with eyes clouded by a storm of mistrust and disbelief.
"You mean...?" His voice scraped out low, like stone grating against stone—not quite convinced, not willing to accept.
Wan Liqiao returned the tongs to the ashpan and spoke in a voice calm as still water:
"They've been part of the sect for years. What they studied wasn't just cultivation—but concealment. Yazhen's path is one of shadow step and vanishment. The art she practices... comes from a place you wouldn't imagine."
"Where?" Xiaochuan's tone dropped, his voice taut with unease.
"The Demonic Sect," Wan Liqiao said, eyes steady. "The Hall of Plumed Blight.
Your mother... was never just a mortal."
Wan Xiaochuan's mouth had gone dry. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white, nails pressing deep into flesh.
This was his family—those who had stood beside him through every season of his life.
And now, it all unraveled into a shadowed script, a deception penned in blood?
Wan Liqiao spoke evenly, voice smooth as still water:
"When I learned the truth, I struggled deeply."
"They are your mother, your sister. Though I could not accept it in my heart... I could not bring myself to strike them down, either."
"But I won't turn a blind eye. And I will never let it pass, unchallenged."
The air in the room turned to stone—dense, unmoving, hard to breathe.
Xiaochuan closed his eyes. His brow twitched with tension.
Only after a long, aching pause did he whisper:
"Then what... what am I supposed to do?"
Wan Liqiao looked at him—this time, his tone gentler than before.
"The Wind and Thunder Blood Seal... isn't something just anyone can touch."
"If you don't train properly—if you let it pass you by—it'll be a loss too deep to name."
Xiaochuan nodded slowly.
That long-held awe, that boyhood confusion toward his father—
It had shifted into something heavier now.
A weight called responsibility.
At last, he lifted the bowl.
A thin frost had gathered along the rim, but the porridge was still warm.
The scent of rice rose faint as dust, settling deep in his chest as he swallowed—
as if drinking down a fate from which there would be no turning back.
The next morning, as mist began to thin, the chill of Spiritwood Ridge still clung to the earth.
Beyond the village, the stream flowed in soft murmur, its currents veiled and supple. Pale driftweeds floated upon the water, and the stones along the bank—rounded like goose eggs—were slick with dew, gleaming like oiled jade.
Wan Xiaochuan stood at the water's edge, draped in a gray cloak. In his hand, he held a talisman forged of blue-iron.
It fit neatly in his palm.
On the front, a wind sigil had been etched—sweeping and elegant.
On the back, a thunder mark coiled, sharp as a carved stroke of lightning.
Though its edges bore the faint scars of corrosion, the center of the token shimmered faintly with a hidden azure light, as if the breath of thunder murmured within.
He closed his eyes.
Bringing the talisman to his brow, he summoned it inward with silent intent.
Within his dantian, the twin rings of wind and thunder began to stir—
then shuddered violently.
The blocked meridians in his body, once sluggish like roots in frost, were torn wide in a single surge.
A pain beyond words shot upward—from his Mingmen to his Baihui.
It seared through his spine like a fire-vein igniting the marrow.
"Bite down," he muttered to himself.
His teeth clenched.
Veins rose beneath the skin of his forehead, pulsing in strain.
And then he felt it—
His body was no longer flesh and blood.
It had become a vessel, hollowed and lit from within, coursed through by wind and thunder.
There, in the morning mist by the river, he trembled.
He burned.
He was reforged.
Only when the surge of spiritual force at last settled—when balance returned to the channels within him—did he open his eyes.
The boyhood softness once nestled in his gaze had faded.
What remained was the glint of something keener—colder—like the final sheen on a blade just before it is sheathed.
He lifted his head and looked toward the distant peaks.
There, deep within Spiritwood Ridge, lay the path his mother and sister had taken for their cultivation.
There, too, was the road that led to the legacy of the Wind and Thunder Blood Seal.
His qi had not yet stilled.
Nor had his will.
And he knew—
this was only the beginning.
⚔️ Wan Xiaochuan's Dantian nearly bursting! Roots damaged! ⭐ Rate, ❤️ Library, 📝 Comments & 💎 PowerStone!