Morning settled gently over the forest.

  Shen An sat at the mouth of his cave, watching mist rise from the trees like breath from a sleeping beast. The dream of golden tribulation had faded with the night, but its echo remained lodged somewhere deep inside his ribs.

  He was fifteen.

  Not six.

  Not kneeling in rain.

  Not calling for parents who would not answer.

  Nine years had passed in this forest.

  Nine years of hunger, cold, and silent discipline.

  He flexed his fingers slowly. Scar over scar. Callus over callus. Every mark earned without witness.

  The dream had felt real.

  Too real.

  He lowered his gaze to the cracked bowl resting beside him.

  Just clay.

  Just fractures.

  Just the only thing he carried when he left the village.

  He picked it up and studied the lines again.

  There was no golden seam now.

  No suspended water.

  No warmth.

  He frowned slightly.

  Then his thoughts sharpened.

  “My blood touched it,” he murmured quietly.

  He remembered the first time.

  He had been injured.

  Blood dripping from his hand.

  It had fallen into the bowl.

  He had later filled it with water.

  He drank from it.

  And that night—

  The dream.

  Golden heaven.

  Tribulation.

  His parents.

  He leaned back against the stone wall.

  “Did I enter some kind of dream realm?” he muttered. “Because my blood touched the bowl… and I drank from it?”

  The idea did not feel absurd.

  He had lived long enough to know the world hid stranger truths.

  He turned the bowl over slowly.

  “What if it requires blood to activate?” he continued, voice low and thoughtful. “What if it needs my blood to fully awaken?”

  He fell silent.

  Wind moved softly through the trees outside.

  He did not act impulsively.

  He had learned that lesson long ago.

  But he also knew—

  Opportunities rarely announced themselves twice.

  If the bowl was ordinary, nothing would happen.

  If it was not—

  Then the path before him would change.

  He reached for his knife.

  The blade was simple.

  Steel worn from years of sharpening.

  Reliable.

  He studied his left palm.

  Old scars crossed it already.

  One more would not matter.

  Without hesitation, he drew the blade lightly across his skin.

  Blood welled up instantly.

  Dark red against pale skin.

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  He held his hand over the bowl.

  Drops fell.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  The sound was soft.

  Almost delicate.

  He did not stop.

  He pressed the cut slightly to deepen the flow.

  Blood streamed steadily into the cracked vessel.

  The smell of iron filled the cave.

  The bowl slowly darkened as it filled.

  He watched carefully.

  Waiting.

  Nothing.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  Perhaps it required more.

  He pressed harder.

  Blood flowed faster.

  The bowl rose from red streaks to a shallow pool.

  Still nothing.

  His breathing remained steady, though his heart had begun to beat harder.

  When the bowl was half full—

  The air changed.

  He felt it before he saw it.

  The temperature shifted.

  Not warmer.

  Not colder.

  But heavier.

  The surface of the blood trembled slightly.

  Then—

  A faint glow flickered within.

  Golden.

  Very faint.

  Shen An’s grip tightened.

  The glow strengthened.

  The blood began to swirl on its own.

  Not stirred by wind.

  Not touched by his hand.

  It rotated slowly, like a miniature whirlpool.

  The cracks along the bowl’s surface began to shine.

  Thin lines of golden light traced each fracture.

  Shen An stepped back instinctively.

  The cave walls reflected flickering radiance.

  The glow intensified.

  Brighter.

  Brighter.

  The blood did not spill.

  It did not overflow.

  Instead, it seemed to be absorbed into the cracks themselves.

  The golden lines thickened.

  The fractures sealed from within.

  A humming sound filled the air.

  Low.

  Resonant.

  As if ancient strings were being plucked beneath the earth.

  The light expanded suddenly, forcing Shen An to shield his eyes.

  Wind burst outward from the bowl.

  Dust scattered.

  Loose pebbles rolled across the stone floor.

  The golden radiance enveloped the entire vessel.

  For a moment—

  The cracked clay bowl was no longer visible.

  Only light.

  Pure, condensed, luminous gold.

  Shen An’s heart pounded.

  His mind did not panic.

  It observed.

  Analyzed.

  Endured.

  Then—

  The light contracted.

  Slowly.

  Gradually.

  Like a tide withdrawing.

  The humming faded.

  The wind stilled.

  Silence returned.

  Shen An lowered his arm cautiously.

  The bowl sat in the same place.

  But it was no longer cracked clay.

  It was jade.

  Flawless.

  Translucent.

  Soft green light shimmered within its surface.

  Its curves elegant.

  Its texture smooth as still water.

  No fracture.

  No imperfection.

  It radiated quiet dignity.

  He stared at it for several breaths.

  “So,” he said softly. “It truly was not ordinary.”

  As he stepped forward—

  A voice spoke.

  “Hmmmm…”

  It was light.

  High.

  Almost childish.

  “Where… am I?”

  Shen An froze.

  His eyes snapped toward the bowl.

  The voice came again.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  The sound was unmistakable.

  It came from the jade bowl.

  Shen An’s brain processed the absurdity for half a heartbeat—

  Then his body reacted before thought.

  He kicked the bowl away instinctively.

  It flew across the cave and struck the stone wall with a sharp clink before rolling to a stop.

  Silence.

  Then—

  “Owwww!”

  The same childish female voice cried out indignantly.

  “Why would you throw me like that?! That hurts!”

  Shen An stared at it.

  Long.

  Unblinking.

  His expression flattened.

  He rubbed his forehead once.

  “Nowadays,” he said slowly, voice dry as winter bark, “even bowls can talk and feel pain?”

  He looked up briefly as if questioning the sky.

  “Are you joking with me?”

  The jade bowl trembled slightly.

  “Of course I can feel pain!” the childish voice snapped. “You’re the one who sliced yourself open and filled me with blood! That’s much more disturbing!”

  Shen An’s eyelid twitched faintly.

  He crouched but did not approach too closely.

  “You are a bowl,” he said calmly.

  “No!” the voice protested. “I am not ‘a bowl’! That is only my vessel!”

  “Ah,” Shen An replied without emotion. “So you admit you are inside the bowl.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “…That is not the point.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I must still be dreaming.”

  “You are not dreaming!”

  Silence again.

  Shen An studied the jade surface carefully.

  It was undeniably different.

  Alive, almost.

  “State your identity,” he said flatly.

  The voice huffed.

  “So rude. You wake someone up after… after…” She paused as if counting. “…After thousands of years, and this is how you speak?”

  “Thousands?”

  “Yes!”

  He sighed.

  “Fine. Let me rephrase. Who are you?”

  A brief silence followed, then a slightly softer tone.

  “I… am the spirit of this vessel.”

  “Spirit.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were asleep.”

  “Obviously.”

  “For thousands of years.”

  “…Yes.”

  Shen An leaned back slightly.

  His gaze sharpened.

  “If you were asleep,” he asked evenly, “why did my blood wake you?”

  The bowl glowed faintly in response.

  “Because,” she said slowly, “this vessel was sealed by bloodline recognition.”

  He stilled.

  “Bloodline?”

  “Yes. It required the blood of its rightful inheritor to restore its form.”

  He stared at it for a long moment.

  “Inheritor.”

  She spoke again, quieter this time.

  “You are very thin for an inheritor.”

  His brow twitched.

  “Thank you.”

  “And why did you throw me?” she demanded again indignantly. “I had just awakened! You nearly chipped me!”

  “You claimed to feel pain.”

  “I do!”

  “Then you are fragile.”

  “I am not fragile!”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “An object that fears impact is fragile.”

  The jade bowl glowed brighter in irritation.

  “I am a high-grade spiritual artifact!”

  “Mm.”

  “Do not ‘mm’ me!”

  Shen An stood slowly and walked toward it.

  This time, he picked it up carefully.

  It was lighter than before.

  Warmer.

  The jade surface felt smooth, almost like skin.

  “High-grade,” he repeated calmly. “Then demonstrate.”

  The bowl was silent for several breaths.

  “…Demonstrate what?”

  “Usefulness.”

  The cave became very quiet.

  Then the childish voice muttered under her breath,

  “You are not very friendly for someone who just awakened a sleeping ancient spirit.”

  Shen An’s expression did not change.

  “I lived alone in this forest from age six to fifteen,” he replied evenly. “Friendliness was not required.”

  Silence.

  For the first time, the voice did not respond immediately.

  When she spoke again, her tone was slightly different.

  Less indignant.

  More observant.

  “…Six?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause.

  “Oh.”

  He did not elaborate.

  He simply held the jade bowl in his hands.

  The forest outside remained unaware that something impossible had just occurred within a stone cave.

  Shen An inhaled slowly.

  Blood still trickled faintly from his palm.

  The bowl shimmered softly.

  The childish voice spoke again.

  “So… you are the one who woke me.”

  “Yes.”

  “…And you are my master now.”

  He blinked once.

  Then exhaled slowly.

  “Of course,” he murmured dryly. “Now even bowls assign me responsibility.”

  The jade vessel glowed faintly in protest.

  “I did not choose this either!”

  Shen An stared at it.

  Then, unexpectedly—

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  Very faint.

  Very brief.

  But real.

  “Well then,” he said quietly, eyes steady, “since neither of us chose this… let us see what use we can make of it.”

  Outside, the wind shifted.

  Inside the cave, jade light reflected off stone.

  And for the first time in nine years—

  Shen An was no longer alone in the forest.