He had spent the last hour bracing himself for a barrage of protective, worried questions about dangerous potions, forbidden rituals, or unstable cultivation methods.
He had already structured a dozen different lies to explain away the miracle.
His mother stopped just at the entrance to the dining room. She turned her head back to look at him, her body half-framed by the dim light of the kitchen.
She stared at him for a long, quiet second, observing the tight, anxious line of his shoulders and the defensive posture he hadn't quite realized he was holding.
Then, she chuckled lightly. It was a soft, warm sound, entirely lacking the sharp edge of suspicion or demand.
"I always knew you were eventually going to break through," she said, offering him a small, knowing nod before turning back toward the pantry. "...one way or another."
