The weight of a father's will

CHAPTER 2

Morning broke, but it brought no reprieve. The cold light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls, pale and indifferent, illuminating the emptiness that had settled within Bai Haofeng's heart. Sleep had not come easily—when it did, it was fitful, plagued by whispers of the past and the weight of the present. Yet rest was a luxury he could not afford.

A faint cry stirred the silence.

He turned his head. The infant lay beside him, small and fragile, wrapped in the thin fabric that barely shielded him from the morning chill. His tiny fists curled and uncurled, his lips trembling in search of warmth. Haofeng's chest tightened. The child had no one else now. No mother to hold him, no soft voice to lull him to sleep. Only him.

With stiff movements, he sat up, reaching for the boy. His hands—rough with calluses, shaped by years of toil—felt ill-suited for something so delicate. And yet, as he lifted the child against his chest, securing him with a strip of cloth, he found himself holding on tighter than necessary, as if afraid that fate might steal away this last piece of Lumin.

But grief did not put food on the table, nor did sorrow loosen the shackles of debt.

He had to work.

Stepping outside, the damp earth gave beneath his boots, the scent of wet leaves and pine filling the crisp morning air. The path stretched before him, long and unkind, winding through the heart of the forest. Each step was a silent testament to his resolve. His body ached from exhaustion, but he pressed forward. The village was miles away, and his labor awaited him.

By the time he arrived, the scent of sawdust clung to the air, mingling with the smoke curling from distant chimneys. Wooden beams and unfinished furniture lay scattered around the workshop, a silent demand for hands willing to carve, shape, and assemble. The villagers barely acknowledged his presence. They knew of his loss, yet no words were spared. Debt was a cruel thing—it left no room for mourning.

Haofeng said nothing. He only adjusted the child against his chest, rolled up his sleeves, and took up his tools.

There was no time for sorrow.

There was only survival.

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The sun had barely climbed past the tree line, casting golden slants of light through the open-air workshop. Dust swirled in the beams, the scent of freshly hewn wood mingling with the lingering chill of morning. The village was still waking, but Bai Haofeng and Jin had been working since dawn.

The steady rhythm of labor echoed in the open space—the dull thud of axes splitting logs, the rasping grind of saws against timber, the occasional creak of wood bending beneath steady hands. Every movement was precise, mechanical. Haofeng had long mastered the craft of woodworking, but today, his thoughts strayed far from the task at hand.

His son.

The weight of his absence pressed against Haofeng's chest. He had left the child in the care of Xiuqin, trusting her with the most fragile piece of his world. It was a necessity. The workshop was no place for an infant—sharp tools, splinters, heavy beams precariously stacked. But the knowledge did little to ease his unease. Every few minutes, his gaze flickered toward the small house across the courtyard where Xiuqin had taken him, but no cries reached his ears.

Still, the silence gnawed at him more than the thought of hearing the boy wail.

"You haven't said a word all morning."

Jin's voice broke through the rhythm of their work. He wiped the sweat from his brow, studying Haofeng with quiet scrutiny. "Not that you're much for conversation, but today you're like a ghost."

Haofeng adjusted his grip on the axe, muscles flexing beneath the strain. "There's nothing to say."

Jin huffed, shaking his head. "That's never true."

Before he could push further, a voice rang out from the house.

"Haofeng!"

Haofeng turned sharply.

Xiuqin stood in the doorway, the child cradled in her arms, wrapped in a soft, well-worn cloth. Relief washed over him at the sight—his son was safe—but his breath caught when he saw the look on Xiuqin's face. There was hesitation in her eyes, concern furrowing her brow.

She glanced down at the baby, adjusting the fabric slightly before looking back up. "His eyes… they're green."

Haofeng's grip on the axe loosened.

Green?

His heart pounded as he strode forward, reaching for the child. His son blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes—two irises of pure, gleaming green.

His breath caught in his throat.

That was not how they had been before.

He remembered vividly—one eye had burned with an unnatural red, the other deep as jade. His son had been born with a gaze that did not belong to this world. Yet now, the red was gone.

Replaced.

A chill crept through his veins.

Jin leaned in slightly, frowning. "Is that… unusual?"

Haofeng didn't answer immediately. His mind reeled, searching for an explanation. Eyes didn't change color like this, not so suddenly, not so drastically. This wasn't a trick of light, nor exhaustion clouding his vision. Something had shifted.

Something beyond reason.

He swallowed, tightening his hold on the baby. There was something else about his son. It wasn't just his gaze. There was a weight to him, a presence, something that prickled at the edges of Haofeng's instincts.

This was not simply a child.

His lips parted before he even realized he was speaking. "Lumin…" His voice was quiet, reverent. He did not look at Xiuqin or Jin—his eyes remained fixed on his son. "He must be a gift from the heavens."

A gift from the gods themselves.

Or perhaps… he is something else entirely.

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The sun stood at its peak, its merciless glare spilling through the wooden framework of the workshop, casting sharp shadows across the sawdust-laden ground. The air hung thick with the sharp tang of freshly cut wood, mingling with the sweat of laboring men. The relentless rhythm of chisels scraping, axes cleaving, and hammers striking against timber filled the space, an unending symphony of toil.

Haofeng worked with quiet precision, his movements methodical, his mind tethered to the task at hand. Each carved edge, each measured cut, kept his thoughts from straying into the abyss of grief that loomed ever near. Against his chest, bound securely in a cloth sling, his son rested in dreamless sleep, his tiny form a fragile warmth against Haofeng's weary frame. The child had not cried once. Perhaps instinct whispered to him that the man who held him had no time to falter.

Jin straightened from his task, rolling his shoulders before casting Haofeng a sidelong glance. "You'll drive yourself into the ground at this pace."

Haofeng did not pause. "I have no other choice."

Jin exhaled, rubbing at the back of his neck, but he knew there was no arguing. Life did not grant reprieve to the desperate. Debt would not ease its hold for the sake of grief.

As the sun climbed higher, the sound of approaching footsteps broke through the din of labor. Xiuqin strode forward, a woven basket resting against her hip. The unmistakable warmth of cooked rice and braised vegetables clung to the midday air. She set the basket down, sweeping her gaze between the men before resting it upon the child secured against Haofeng's chest.

"You should eat," she stated, her tone brooking no argument. "You won't do anyone any good if you collapse."

Haofeng exhaled, setting aside his chisel. He unwound the cloth from his waist and wiped his hands, though exhaustion weighed heavier on his limbs than the filth of labor. His son remained still, undisturbed by the world.

Xiuqin hesitated, watching him. "Have you even thought about how you're going to do this? You're alone, Haofeng."

Jin, arms folded, gave a slow nod. "She's right. It's not just about feeding him. He's a child, not something you can just keep alive and expect to grow. He'll need someone to hold him when he cries, to teach him how to live."

Haofeng's fingers curled slightly. His gaze dropped to the infant resting against him, his breath barely a whisper of movement. So small. So unaware of the weight now resting upon his father's shoulders.

"I will take care of him," Haofeng said, his voice firm, unshaken. "No matter what."

Xiuqin let out a quiet sigh. "You've always been like this."

Jin let out a short, humorless laugh. "Stubborn fool."

Haofeng did not waver. Their concerns meant little in the face of what he had already resolved. The path before him was set, and there was no turning back.

The baby stirred slightly, a tiny hand curling into the fabric of Haofeng's robe before settling once more.

The conversation drifted into silence, swallowed by the steady clamor of work. The stiffening pounding of hammers, the scrape of iron against wood, the low murmur of voices—life continued, unmoved by grief, unyielding in its demands.

And when night fell, when the last vestiges of daylight surrendered to the hush of moonlight, Haofeng would still be standing.

And when the road stretched long before him, when weariness gnawed at his very bones—he would still carry his son.

Alone.

*𝗛𝗔𝗢𝗙𝗘𝗡𝗚'𝗦 𝗣𝗢𝗩*

The night stretched boundless, a vast expanse of darkness where the stars moon weakly,its glow too distant to touch the world below. The wind swept through the forest in hushed whispers, stirring the towering trees that loomed like silent sentinels. It was quiet—too quiet.

I carried my son through the dense woods, his small form bundled in fabric, his warmth pressing against my chest. He was light, fragile, yet something about him felt unshakable, as if fate itself had wrapped around him, protecting him, molding him into something greater than this world could comprehend. He slept, oblivious to the weight of my thoughts, his tiny breaths steady against the cold night air.

Zhuang.

Xiuqin had called him by that name.

I had accepted it, had let it settle in my heart like a promise. It was a strong name, a name that would not break under the weight of misfortune. But when she had spoken it, she had placed a surname before it—Bai Zhuang.

Bai.

The name that I carried. A name stained with hardship, burdened with a life of struggle. A name that held no power, no authority, nothing that could protect him from what lay ahead. I had walked through life as a Bai—and what had it given me?

Suffering. Loss. Debt. A son I could not afford to raise in comfort. A wife I could not save.

A Bai was a common man. A name that could be forgotten, erased by time.

But my son would not be forgotten.

I glanced down at his sleeping face, barely visible beneath the dim light of the moon. He did not yet understand the world he had been born into, the struggles that awaited him, the battles he would one day fight. But one day, he would. And when that day came, he would not carry the name of a common man.

He needed something greater.

A name that would stand above all others, a name that would command respect, inspire fear, one that could never be ignored. A name that would carve itself into history, whispered by those who dared to speak it, feared by those who opposed it.

The wind howled through the trees, rustling the leaves in response, as if the world itself had heard my thoughts. I tightened my grip on him, pressing forward through the darkened path, my mind unshaken.

I will give you everything, Zhuang.

Everything I never had.

Everything that was stolen from me.

I will raise you, not as a man bound by the chains of misfortune, but as someone who will break them.

And when the world sees you, they will know—

You were never meant to be ordinary.