EARLY YEARS
The early years of Shen Chen's life were filled with warmth and love.
His mother, Shen Wei, was a constant presence, her arms always open, her voice always gentle. She sang to him in the quiet hours of the night, her voice soft and melodic, carrying the weight of ancient lullabies passed down through generations. She held him close, her fingers tracing patterns on his back, her heart beating in rhythm with his own.
"Little dragon," she would whisper, her breath warm against his ear. "You are destined for greatness. I can feel it in my bones."
Shen Chen did not understand her words, but he understood her love. It was a love that asked for nothing in return, a love that saw him not as a disappointment or a failure, but as a gift.
His father, Shen Tian, was more distant, but no less loving. He would visit Shen Chen's chambers after his duties were done, his face tired but his eyes soft. He would sit beside his son's crib, his hand resting on the infant's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.
"You are a Shen," he would murmur, his voice filled with a quiet pride. "You carry the blood of dragons. One day, you will understand what that means."
Shen Chen's early years were marked by small joys—the taste of his mother's cooking, the sound of his father's laughter, the warmth of the clan's gardens bathed in sunlight. He would toddle through the corridors, his tiny legs unsteady, his laughter echoing off the stone walls. The servants would smile as he passed, their faces softening at the sight of the young master.
But not everyone was kind.
His cousin, Shen Hao, was four years older, a boy whose arrogance matched his talent. He would watch Shen Chen with cold, calculating eyes, his lips curled in a sneer.
"Look at him," Shen Hao would say to the other children, his voice dripping with contempt. "He can barely walk. He'll never amount to anything."
The other children would laugh, their voices sharp and cruel. Shen Chen would look down, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, his heart aching with a pain he did not understand.
His mother would notice, her eyes sharp with concern. She would scoop him into her arms, her voice gentle but firm.
"Pay them no mind, my little dragon," she would whisper. "They don't know what they're saying. You are special. I know it."
Shen Chen would nod, his tears drying on his cheeks. He believed her. He had no reason not to.
His father, too, would try to protect him. He would spend hours with Shen Chen, teaching him the basics of cultivation, his voice patient and encouraging.
"Feel the energy around you," Shen Tian would say, his hand resting on his son's back. "It's everywhere—in the air, in the ground, in the very stones beneath your feet. Close your eyes and feel it."
Shen Chen would close his eyes, his young mind struggling to grasp the concept. He could feel nothing—just the warmth of his father's hand and the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.
"I can't feel anything, Father," he would admit, his voice small and uncertain.
"That's okay," Shen Tian would say, his voice gentle. "It takes time. You're still young."
But even as he spoke, Shen Tian could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. His son should be able to sense the spiritual energy by now. All the other children could.
Perhaps he's just a late bloomer, he would tell himself. Perhaps he needs more time.
Time would prove him wrong.