Inside, the house was warm, filled with the smells of freshly cooked food, the sound of family, of simple pleasures. Qin Wuye sat at the table with his siblings, the conversation flowing around him. He ate little, his mind elsewhere, but he knew the role he must play. He was the eldest son, the one who had inherited the mantle of responsibility, even if none of them knew the true weight of it.
His sister sat beside him, her head resting gently against his shoulder as she spoke of childish things. She spoke of flowers and birds, of simple joys that seemed so distant now, and yet, Qin Wuye found himself listening, his heart twisting in ways he did not understand. The cold ambition that had once filled him was now tempered, if only for a moment, by the warmth of her presence.
But that warmth was fleeting. He could not afford to linger in it. The game was afoot.
"Let them believe I am but a child," he thought, the words like a whisper in the back of his mind. "Let them see what they wish to see."
The world would come to know him soon enough. They would learn that Qin Wuye was not a child at all, but a storm waiting to break free. And when it did, nothing would stand in his way.