Morning showed up again, sharp and loud, with the rooster screaming and the shuffle of feet outside. Xing Yun groaned, rolling over and hoping his mother would believe he was still asleep. No chance with her.

"Up already, Yun!" she called, her voice ringing through the door. "The sun's climbing faster than you are."

He sighed and sat up. Every muscle ached from fixing the well yesterday, and his hands still burned from the blisters. But nobody waited around in the village. Life here was all about doing, not daydreaming.

He washed up, choked down a bowl of watery millet porridge, and stepped outside. The air was bright and sharp, full of damp earth and the soft smoke from early fires. The village buzzed: women sweeping, men hauling straw on their backs, kids tearing around barefoot with sticks, fighting imaginary battles.

Liang, always early, waited at the well with a yoke and two empty buckets. His grin was wide, but his eyelids drooped.

"Took you long enough," Liang called, hitching the yoke up. "Any slower and the well would've run dry."

"It won't," Yun shot back, fighting a smile. "You'd drink it all first."

Liang's laugh echoed down the lane, loud enough to earn a scolding from Grandma Mei, who was shaking out a quilt by her door. "You boys are too noisy for this hour," she snapped, but when Yun bowed, her eyes lingered on him, thoughtful. It made him squirm.

The well wasn't far, but with full buckets, the walk back felt twice as long. By the time they reached home, Yun's arms shook and his shoulders burned. His mother just nodded, satisfied, and pointed him toward the fields.

Rows of millet stretched as far as he could see, green and endless. Yun knelt, sun on his back, hands moving on their own—pulling weeds, fixing stalks, checking roots. Cool dirt pressed against his fingers. It wasn't thrilling, but it was steady. It grounded him.

Liang, naturally, gave up quick. He flopped down in the grass, groaning.

"You think this is it for us?" Liang asked, staring straight up. "Farm, sweat, eat, sleep—over and over?"

Yun wiped sweat off his brow. "What else is there?"

Liang flashed a lazy grin. "Stories. Heroes. Wandering swordsmen. I heard about guys who can jump over rivers, split trees with their bare hands. Don't you want to see that?"

Yun snorted. "You'd run away if you did."

Liang laughed. "Maybe. But it's better than staring at dirt all day."

They sat there for a while, quiet except for Yun's hands moving through the plants. But his mind drifted. He remembered the bandit's sword shattering—just a flash of silver. Liang's words stuck with him. Maybe he wasn't meant to stay in this little village his whole life.

But what else could he do?

By midday, the square filled up with voices. Families gathered around rough tables, passing rice, pickled radish, thin broth. Kids laughed louder than they had in days. The air felt lighter somehow.

Yun ate fast and mostly kept to himself, though Liang did his best to drag him into every joke. At one point, Liang hopped onto a bench and mimicked the village head's growl, getting groans and giggles all around.

"Sit down before you break your neck," Yun muttered, pulling him down.

The afternoon meant more work. Some men fixed the fences on the edge of the village. Yun chopped wood behind the house with an old, blunt axe, swinging until sweat stung his eyes and his arms shook. The smack and crack of wood splitting felt good, though.

Finally, when the sun dipped low and stained the sky gold, Yun tossed the axe aside. His mother called him in for supper, and soon the whole village slipped into quiet.

But Yun didn't sleep—not yet.

He walked back out to the fields, as he always did. The grass was cool, the night air almost cold. He lay back and stared at the sky.

The stars shimmered, endless and bright. He thought about what Liang said—heroes, stories, bigger lives. Part of him wanted that. Another part wanted the peace of routine, the safety of what he knew.

"Is this enough?" he whispered up at the sky. "Or… am I meant for something else?"

The stars said nothing. Just silence. But for a second, Yun thought he saw one flash, quick and bright, before fading back into the sea of light.

He closed his eyes, telling himself he'd remember this.

And he didn't know there was an eye watching him quietly from above the stars

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