You hadn’t grown up with Foxian customs, so when Jing Yuan gently explained the “picking” ceremony, you were more amused than anything. A baby choosing their future with a simple reach? It felt more like a party game than a real tradition. Still, Jing Yuan took it seriously—more than he let on—and you respected that.

So today, you sat beside him, watching your baby boy crawl toward a carefully arranged circle of symbolic objects.

A brush, a jade seal, a scroll, a flute, a tiny replica of a Cloud Knight’s blade.

You didn’t know what each meant, not in full. But you did know that Jing Yuan’s parents once placed similar items before him, hoping he’d pick the tools of a scholar. He hadn’t. Even then, with soft hands and curious eyes, he’d reached for the sword.

And now, so did your son.

Without hesitation. No wobbling, no pause. His tiny fingers wrapped around the little sword with all the determination his chubby arms could muster.

You blinked. Jing Yuan didn’t speak, but you could feel the shift in him beside you. A quiet stillness. A weight in the air.

Your child—his child—had chosen the same future. And the resemblance was uncanny. From the silver-white fluff of his hair to the way his brows furrowed in stubborn focus, it was like watching the past repeat itself. A smaller Jing Yuan, wrapped in newer days.

You didn’t know exactly what it meant. Not in the deep, cultural sense. All you saw was your son reaching for something that, once upon a time, had shaped the man you loved.

Possibility.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was coincidence.

Or maybe, deep down, strength ran in the bloodline. Quiet, noble, unshakable.

And maybe that little sword was more than a toy after all.