The city woke early—far earlier than the sun.
Hong Kong breathed with its usual restlessness.
Bus horns echoed faintly through the streets, sparrows chirped from electric wires, and elders moved slowly in the park, stretching stiff limbs under dim streetlights.
Stall owners lifted metal shutters and arranged their goods with practiced hands, chatting idly as steam rose from cooking pots.
Everything was ordinary.
Peaceful.
And yet—
Zhen Yi stopped walking.
The noise around him faded into a dull hum as a sharp ache bloomed behind his forehead. His fingers tightened around the strap of his school bag.
For just a second, the street beneath his feet vanished.
Dust filled the air. The smell of blood and iron burned his lungs. A man stood before him—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in ancient armor darkened by battle. His sword cut through enemies as if they were nothing more than shadows.
Then a voice roared across the battlefield.
"GENERAL YAN ZHEN!"
Zhen Yi gasped.
"Hey—Zhen Yi!"
The world snapped back into place as someone shook his shoulder. He blinked hard, breathing unevenly, the busy street returning in fragments. Chen Ming stood in front of him, brows furrowed, while Li Qiyue hovered anxiously at his side.
"What happened? You just froze," Li Qiyue asked softly.
Zhen Yi swallowed, forcing a weak smile.
"…Nothing. Just tired."
But his heart kept racing.
The name echoed in his mind, heavy and unfamiliar—yet painfully close.
*
Eight hours earlier.
The alarm rang at exactly 4:00 AM.
A hand reached out lazily and slapped the phone, silencing it before it could ring again.
Zhen Yi groaned and rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow. His small room was cluttered but comfortable, its corners stacked with books—some new, some secondhand, some so old their pages had yellowed with time.
He finally sat up, rubbing his eyes as the faint glow of dawn slipped through the window.
Zhen Yi was sixteen.
Cute, his mother always said. Pale skin, soft features, doe-like eyes that made him look harmless—until you noticed the sharp V-shaped jawline that gave his face a quiet edge.
The door creaked open.
"Good morning, Yi," his mother said warmly, stepping inside with a cup of milk. "Drink this quickly and get ready. Your grandfather is already waiting in the garden."
She placed the cup in his hands. Zhen Yi nodded sleepily, still processing his own name as he drank. After finishing, he dragged himself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and headed downstairs.
The garden behind their home was small but well cared for. Plants lined the edges neatly, their leaves still wet with morning dew. His grandfather stood there, watering them with calm precision.
Zhen Yi grinned.
He crept up behind the old man and wrapped his arms around him tightly.
"Morning, Zhen Hong," he said, laughing as he stepped back.
His grandfather turned, eyes sparkling, and immediately ruffled Zhen Yi's hair.
"How many times have I told you not to call me by my name?" he scolded lightly. "I'm your grandfather."
"Okay, okay," Zhen Yi said cheerfully. "My mother's husband's father."
"Grandfather," Zhen Hong corrected, trying—and failing—to sound stern.
"Right, right. Grandfather."
Another voice cut in, deep and rough.
"What's going on this early?"
Zhen Yi's father walked into the garden, stretching as he yawned.
"Testing grandfather's patience," Zhen Yi replied easily.
Zhen Hong pointed accusingly at him. "See how your son disrespects me? Aren't you going to correct him?"
"Did you call me, honey?" his father said suddenly, glancing toward the house. "My wife's calling. This is between you and your grandson."
He disappeared inside before either of them could respond.
Zhen Yi laughed.
"I know your son's too scared to solve our fights."
"Your father," Zhen Hong corrected automatically.
He glanced at the clock inside the living room.
4:30 AM.
His expression shifted—playful warmth giving way to seriousness.
"Enough teasing. It's time for training. Go get your sword."
Zhen Yi nodded and hurried upstairs.
The sword rested carefully in its place. Ancient. Untouched by time. The one his family had refused to hand over to the government museum.
Zhen Yi bowed to it instinctively.
He didn't fully understand its history, but he respected the weight it carried.
When he returned to the garden, his grandfather watched him closely.
"What are you holding?" Zhen Hong asked.
"And why is it important?"
Zhen Yi straightened.
"It's not just a sword. It's something passed down by our ancestors. It shows our family's history. I'll protect it—and pass it on one day."
Zhen Hong's eyes softened. He placed a hand on Zhen Yi's shoulder.
"Good. Now show me your stance."
Zhen Yi stepped into position. His movements weren't perfect, but they were sincere. Every swing carried effort, not carelessness.
His father returned and sat beside Zhen Hong.
"I still don't understand why you teach him this," he muttered. "We could sell that sword. The government offered a lot. At least it would help us. Sword fighting has no value now."
Zhen Hong didn't even look at him.
"You shut up."
"My son will study well," his father continued. "Become a CEO. Change our fate."
"My grandson will not let this culture die," Zhen Hong said calmly. "Isn't that right?"
Zhen Yi stopped and nodded with a bright smile.
His father sighed, defeated.
"You and your grandson."
By 5:30 AM, Zhen Yi was exhausted but energized. His grandfather praised him, and his mother called him in to rest before school.
Later, with his uniform on and breakfast finished, Zhen Yi walked out into the city.
Hong Kong was alive.
School passed as usual—teasing from Chen Ming, playful remarks from Li Qiyue, endless assignments.
After school, they walked together through streets filled with food stalls, steam curling into the evening air.
And then—
The vision struck.
The battlefield.
The armor.
The voice.
"GENERAL YAN ZHEN."
Now, lying on his bed at home, Zhen Yi stared at the ceiling, his chest tight.
The name refused to leave him.
It felt wrong.
And yet—
It felt like something that had always been his.