In the western wing of the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Clan estate, chaos had taken up temporary residence. And its host? A one-month-old baby named Ning Zhen.
"HE'S DOING IT AGAIN!" came the urgent cry of a maid, running barefoot across the corridor with slightly singed robes.
Inside the nursery, smoke curled gently from the half-melted edge of a jade-carved crib. In the center of the room, little Zhen sat upright, red-faced and wailing with the indignation only infants could muster. From his palm, a delicate golden thread of flame danced through the air — slicing a spirit-forged rattle cleanly in half.
Sword Douluo Chen Xin stood stiffly in the doorway, eyebrows raised high enough to rival the clan's rooftop tiles. "He forged a blade. Mid-cry."
Bone Douluo Gu Rong snorted. "Pfft. That's not a blade. That's a passionate burp."
"Remind me again why he's not in a spirit-proof bassinet?"
"He melted the last one," Yanxi said calmly from her seat by the window, gently fanning the baby with a spirit-woven feather. "Twice."
Fengzhi burst in, hair tousled and breath ragged. "I heard the alarm wards flare! What happened? Is he possessed? Did a spirit beast sneak in?!"
"Your son sneezed fire and sliced a priceless rattle," Chen Xin replied.
"I TOLD you to move the expensive ones!" Fengzhi groaned.
Zhen had calmed down by now, though a residual golden glow still pulsed from his tiny hands. His gaze, wide and suspiciously wise, flitted between the adults like he was judging their emotional intelligence.
"You can stop pretending, kid," Gu Rong muttered, leaning closer. "We know you're in there."
Yanxi chuckled. "It's not unusual. His spirits are still forming, but his spirit energy is overflowing even when he's asleep."
Fengzhi sat down beside her, resting a hand on her knee. "Your martial soul and mine are pulsing whenever we are near him — as if they're nurturing his martial spirit."
"As if his martial spirit is their baby," Yanxi said, chuckling.
That night, while Zhen finally slept in a new alloy-reinforced cradle, Yanxi and Fengzhi stood by the lotus pond, the moonlight painting silver across the water.
"Do you remember," she said softly, "the tournament in Dawnlight City?"
Fengzhi smiled. "How could I forget? You knocked a bishop unconscious with a flaming chisel."
"It was a staff," she said, smirking.
"You said it was 'an elegant application of metallurgical truth.'"
She turned to face him, her eyes warm. "When we created that spirit-forged artifact together — the Resonant Mirror Bell — I felt something. Not just spirit compatibility… but something deeper."
Fengzhi nodded. "I felt it too. Like our spirits weren't just working together. They were… choosing each other."
"I think," Yanxi said, voice hushed, "Zhen was forged that day. In potential."
They stood in silence, broken only by the gentle ripple of the lotus pond.
"Do you think he'll be safe?" Fengzhi asked.
"No," Yanxi replied. "But I think he'll be powerful. And kind. And strange — considering his Douluo babysitters."
Fengzhi smiled. "He'll be our son."
Behind them, from the nursery window, a soft clang rang out — another bassinet burned to the crisp
Gu Rong's muffled voice echoed: "He's doing it again!"
Thus began the legend of Ning Zhen, the flame-forged child whose spirit pulsed even in dreams, and whose path had been sparked long before his first steps. He was not simply born — he was willed into existence by power, passion, and love.
And he had only just begun to scream.