chapter 5

Chapter 5.

She straightened slightly, stepping back, her eyes scanning the room carefully—but never meeting Wuming directly.

Wuming’s gaze followed her. He noticed the slight stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled unconsciously at her sides, the quick flick of her eyes toward the servants—tiny movements that revealed both calculation and caution. She thinks she’s in control. She is… careful. Useful for now, he thought.

Everything was so useful to him. He was gathering tools, unknowingly.

His mother shifted beside him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her presence calm but protective. “She is cautious,” she said softly, as if reading his thoughts aloud. “Good. But remember, caution is not always strength.”

Wuming inclined his head slightly, silently agreeing, though his lips did not move. He noted the father’s measured gaze, the tension in the household staff, and the way the second lady maintained her composure despite the subtle shift in authority.

Patience, he thought. Observe first. Learn. Only then act.

He leaned back slightly, letting the warmth from his bath linger, his mind already mapping patterns, loyalties, and possible moves. Even at seven, his mind was alert, weighing every gesture, every word.

The second lady said nothing further, settling herself in the room quietly. Wuming’s golden eyes followed her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. We will see who moves first.

The second lady’s lips curled into a sharp smile as she stepped closer. “You didn’t even greet me,” she said, voice laced with authority, “I am your elder, and tradition demands respect.”

Wuming’s golden eyes flicked to her briefly. Tradition was meaningless to him. He turned slightly toward his mother, who gave a subtle nod of approval, and he spoke calmly, deliberately:

“Ignorance,” she said, her voice steady, “is the greatest catastrophe of humanity.”

His eyes narrowed. So this is the type of person she is… high and mighty, speaking without care for others, he thought, studying her.

“I am shocked,” he said slowly, stepping closer, his gaze cold, “that you are not aware…”

“Aware of what?” she snapped, a thread of irritation creeping into her voice.

He moved to stand beside his mother, who was seated on the bed, his small frame already radiating quiet authority despite his age. “The greatest trait of those who fail to recognize ignorance,” he said, voice icy and deliberate, “is arrogance.”

Her mouth opened, startled. “You…!”

His father, watching from across the room, let out a soft chuckle. His mother patted Wuming’s shoulder gently, the warmth sending a small shiver through him.

“Go wear some clothes,” she said softly. “You’ve been in the bath long enough.”

“I want everyone out,” Wuming said simply. His mother inclined her head and turned to his father. “Let’s go to your room. He needs rest.”

One by one, the household cleared out. Lan’er returned with his clothes, helping him dress in a simple yet elegant black Hanfu, traditional in style, paired with soft Chinese shoes. Wuming ate quietly, his mind already half in meditation, half in observation, reading a Chinese martial arts manual as the last servant departed.

Lan’er had already left, but he called for her. No response. A flick of his hand, and he rose, stepping into the darkened corridors. The night was still. Few voices whispered in the distance, but the corridors were empty.

He paused, noting the sounds, before he reached into the depths of his cultivation. From the darkness within, he separated a portion of his demon soul. The Blood Demon, a pure essence he had been refining since waking four days ago, split into a smaller form—an infant demon, already growing, already alert. Two days of careful refinement had made it a perfect observer.

The demon floated around him, radiating a presence so heavy that Wuming’s legs wobbled slightly. He steadied himself and spoke softly:

“Calm down,” he said. “Do not be so excited. You might harm me.”

The little demon nuzzled obediently, its chaotic energy contained.

“Go,” Wuming whispered, “and listen.”

Through telepathy, he linked with the infant demon, extending its senses across the estate. Soon, he heard them—Lan’er, speaking in hushed tones, the second lady’s sharp voice cutting through like a knife.

“If you don’t give him the poison dose in the next 25 hours,” the second lady hissed, “my entire plan will fail. Foolish girl!”

“I can’t do that,” Lan’er replied, her voice tense. “He’s my young master, too far away, and… observing. You said he was dumb? Naive? He’s calm, calculating, and—sometimes—creepy. I can’t act recklessly. His mother… She's cast martial arts spells on him. Anything meant to harm him will fail. I don’t want to die.”

The second lady’s laugh was cold, venomous. “Still a dumb boy, just a little strong because of his mother. Alright, the royal princess is clever—but the child must die.”

Wuming’s golden eyes narrowed. From the shadows of his room, he watched, listened, and calculated. Every word, every movement, every intent was data. He had a plan, layers of them. And they had no idea just how deep he had already seen.

So predictable, he thought. So… fragile. Everything falls into place, as always.

Wuming’s golden eyes narrowed as the voices faded slightly in the distance. Every word the second lady had spoken, every hesitation in Lan’er’s tone, was now a thread in his calculations.

He leaned back slightly, letting the shadows of the room cloak him, and sent the demon infant gliding silently toward the corridor. Its tiny form moved like smoke, slipping past doors and through cracks, invisible to the untrained eye. Through it, Wuming could hear everything—footsteps, whispers, even the subtle exchange of breaths that betrayed fear, anger, or scheming.

They underestimate me, he thought. Every servant, every member of the household, thinks I am a child. Yet they fail to see the centuries I carry within this body.

The infant demon floated closer to the second lady, who now bent over a map of the estate, her face sharp, calculating. Lan’er lingered beside her, tense, speaking in quiet tones.

“You said the child must die,” Wuming heard her hiss. “Yet he is far stronger than you imagined. His mother’s protection… There are no trivial spells. If you act rashly, everything is lost.”

“I don’t care,” the second lady replied coldly. “I will not fail. A child, a fool, a pawn… he will not survive this night.”

Wuming’s lips curved slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Pawn? They think of me as a pawn. How amusing.

The demon infant shifted subtly, floating closer, letting its demonic presence radiate just enough to unsettle the two women without revealing itself. Through it, Wuming probed, sensing every fear, every intention, every unspoken thought.

So this is what it is to be aware before action, he mused silently. To know the movements of others before they even consider them. To strike only when the time is perfect.

He withdrew slightly, sending the demon infant back to hover beside him. Its eyes glimmered, attuned to his will.

“Good,” Wuming whispered softly. “Observe, but do nothing unnecessary. Collect everything. Every word, every intent, every misstep. When the time comes… they will see what it means to underestimate me.”

The little demon nuzzled his hand, obedient, ready, patient. And Wuming, despite the warmth of the bath still lingering on his skin and his mother’s calm presence nearby, felt the familiar stir of cold calculation.

The night stretched, silent and tense, the household unaware that the seven-year-old child they underestimated was already watching, already listening, already preparing.

And he would not be unprepared.

Wuming’s golden eyes followed the empty corridor, listening through the demon infant that had just flown away. The silence of the night pressed against him, but in that quiet, he felt something… alive.

Silence has a voice, he thought, the corners of his lips curling slightly. But it needs a soul to understand it.

His gaze darkened. And I am enough.

He folded his hands, feeling the residual heat of the bath on his skin, and let the thought sink into the very marrow of his being. The world whispered constantly, through words, intentions, lies, and secrets—but most could not hear it. He could. He always could.

The demon infant had gone to observe, to listen, to learn. Yet Wuming knew something others did not: it was not the demon that discovered truth—it was the one who possessed it, the mind that guided it. Every pulse, every movement, every breath carried information. And he would use it.

The world’s arrogance, its cruelty, its weakness… he thought, all of it is visible to those who do not sleep. And I… I do not sleep in the same way they do.

He exhaled slowly, the faint fog from the bath curling around him like a halo of shadow. Even at seven, even in a body so young and fragile, his mind had already begun carving paths others could not even imagine. Every movement, every breath, every intention in this house was now a thread in the web he was beginning to weave.

And from that web, he would pull power. Knowledge. Revenge. Control.

I am enough, he repeated silently. Enough to understand. Enough to survive. Enough to dominate.

The little demon returned briefly, circling him like a restless shadow. Wuming’s eyes flickered with approval. Good. Watch. Listen. Learn. There is no one who can hide from us—not tonight, not ever.

And with that, the child sat in the darkness, alone but far from helpless, letting the quiet speak to him in ways no one else could hear.

After the demon infant returned and settled quietly beside him, Wuming rose from the window sill. The night wind ruffled his long silver hair, strands drifting around his sharp, young features. The moonlight glinted across his golden eyes, making them appear almost otherworldly in the darkness.

A soft sound reached him—Lan’er entering, carrying a glass of milk. “Master,” she said quietly, bowing slightly, her voice steady despite the tension that always lingered around him.

Wuming didn’t turn immediately. He remained standing by the window, letting the wind play across his hair, his gaze fixed on the moon. Then, slowly, he moved toward her. He stopped just a few inches away, bending down slightly, close enough that she felt the faint brush of his presence. Her eyes widened. Her heart thumped.

“he… he's handsome,” she thought, heat rising to her cheeks, but she didn’t speak.

Wuming tilted his head, a faint smile brushing his lips. “Are you loyal to me?” he asked softly.

Lan’er swallowed, caught between obedience and fear. “Yes… master,” she admitted, almost without realizing it.

Liar. Fucking liars, Wuming thought.

He gestured toward the milk. “Drink it,” he said quietly, leaning slightly closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “With this pill. I want you to eat it.”

Lan’er hesitated, the cup trembling in her hands. She didn’t understand, and couldn't know what he had done. With careful precision, she obeyed, drinking the milk in one motion. Wuming watched her, eyes calculating, as the pill—unknown to her a soul-controlling method used in the righteous sects’ darkest interrogations—slipped down.

When she finished, he reached forward, gently wiping the rim of the cup from her chin. “Go back to sleep, Lan’er,” he said softly. She nodded, curtsied, and left the room without another word. Fifteen years old, yet in his eyes, she was already a tool, a pawn, and a witness to the strength he would wield.

Wuming let out a small, quiet laugh once the door closed. So she drank it… He allowed himself the satisfaction of knowing either she had no antidote or hadn’t yet administered it. Either way, she was now under his influence, however subtly.

The pill itself was cruel in design—a soul carnage pill, the kind used by righteous sects to break demons, extract answers, and bend wills. But Wuming didn’t want to harm her unnecessarily; he wanted compliance, observation, and control. She would reveal everything now, without even knowing it.

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