“Han Sen, the carrots—cut them for eight portions!”

  “Yes, Uncle!”

  “Blanch in hot water, then cold plunge—don’t forget!”

  “Understood, Uncle!”

  “And the table by the window?”

  “Five bowls of duck noodles, Uncle.”

  So passed Han Sen’s days in Kim Tun’s eatery.

  Three months had turned since they opened the small restaurant in the family courtyard. Kim Tun’s pots worked miracles—duck simmered slow with star anise and ginger, broth rich as autumn earth, noodles springing like new life.

  Word spread.

  Patrons came in steady streams, drawn by fragrance drifting down Tongzhou’s lanes.

  Han Sen wore a server’s apron now, moving between tables with quiet grace. He tallied orders, received coin, gave change—numbers flowing through his mind swift as wind. Kim Tun often laughed, wiping hands on his apron.

  “Boy, you count faster than I cook!”

  Han Sen only smiled.

  The work suited him.

  Simple. Honest. A roof, warm food, the laughter of Kim In chasing chickens in the yard.

  One afternoon, as the sun slanted gold through the courtyard gate, three travellers entered.

  Wide-brimmed hats shadowed their faces.

  Swords hung at their sides—long, well-oiled, the mark of men who lived by the blade.

  They ordered duck noodles.

  Han Sen served with bowed head and careful hands.

  They ate in silence, quickly.

  Yet they did not leave.

  When the last guest departed and the courtyard emptied, they remained seated—three statues beneath the locust tree.

  Kim Tun emerged from the kitchen, stretching his aching back.

  The travellers rose as one.

  Blades whispered from sheaths.

  “Where is Kim Bun?” the foremost asked, voice low but carrying the resonance of cultivated qi.

  “A life debt must be paid.”

  Kim Tun paled. “Kim Bun… my brother… has not returned here in many years.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed beneath his hat brim.

  “Debt is debt. Kin answers for kin. Your head will serve.”

  The blade flashed—swift, merciless arc toward Kim Tun’s neck.

  Kim Tun stumbled back, arms raised in helpless terror.

  Steel met bamboo.

  TRAAANNGG!

  The yellow staff—simple, unassuming—caught the sword mid-stroke.

  Shockwave rippled through the courtyard.

  Leaves trembled upon the locust tree.

  The attacker staggered, eyes widening beneath his hat.

  His qi—deep, refined—had met an equal force.

  Han Sen stood between the swordsman and Kim Tun, staff steady, expression calm.

  The man stared. Han Sen felt it too.

  Foundation Establishment.

  Both of them. The air grew heavy.

  Kim In’s frightened gasp echoed from the doorway.

  “The boy has skill,” the man who's called Toako muttered, voice low as winter wind. “Likely Kim Bun’s disciple.”

  “Then his life will settle the debt,” another answered, eyes cold.

  The leader spun, blade flashing in a vicious arc toward Han Sen.

  Han Sen parried—bamboo staff ringing against steel—and retreated swiftly, drawing the fight from the courtyard.

  He would not shatter Kim Tun’s livelihood with careless blows.

  Once clear of tables and roof, beneath open sky, he breathed freer.

  The staff sang. Five Thunders surged—swift as storm, unpredictable as gale.

  The leader staggered beneath the onslaught.

  His two companions drew blades.

  Three against one.

  Qi pressed heavily upon the air—Foundation Establishment, each of them, perhaps a breath deeper than Han Sen’s own.

  The strain came quickly.

  Han Sen danced on the edge—Five Winds carrying him through slashing arcs, staff blurring in defense.

  Yet every parry jarred his bones.

  “Tell me,” he called amid the clash, voice steady despite blood rising in his throat, “could the three of you last a single breath against Kim Bun himself?”

  The words struck true.

  Suspicion hardened into certainty.

  This youth must be the master’s hidden heir.

  Their assault grew fiercer—blades weaving a net of death.

  Han Sen gave ground, measured, and was deliberate.

  Each block borrowed its force, turning it to his retreat—up the gentle slope toward Phoenix Mountain’s foot.

  A heavy strike grazed his side.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Blood coughed warm upon his lips.

  He pressed on.

  Into thick undergrowth taller than a man—vines tangling, leaves dense as night.

  He whispered the Art of Vanishing.

  Aura faded. Presence dissolved.

  He slipped behind the broad trunk of an ancient pine.

  The trio crashed through the brush, blades hacking vines.

  But the youth was gone—scent, sound, qi—all vanished like mist before dawn.

  “He climbs higher,” one growled. “Caves above.”

  “Then we follow.”

  Qi flared in their legs.

  They surged upward, swift as mountain leopards, vanishing into the green heights.

  Han Sen waited in stillness, breath slow, blood drying upon his chin.

  He slipped back through the shadows, returning to Kim Tun’s courtyard before the dust of fleeing horses had settled.

  “Uncle,” he asked, breath steady despite the race, “who were those men? Why attack without cause?”

  Kim Tun sighed, weariness carving deeper lines into his face.

  “That… is why I was warned never to stray far. My kin—reckless, hot-blooded—ignite feuds like dry grass. The martial world sees debt in blood, and the weakest often pay first. Me. My daughter.”

  He looked toward the gate, voice low.

  “They may return. If they mark your face, they will come again. Stay within these walls today. I will tend the restaurant alone.”

  Han Sen bowed, concern quiet in his eyes.

  He withdrew to his small chamber—deep in the house, beside the unused practice hall. A simple kang bed, a straw mattress, and one window high upon the wall.

  Only now did the truth settle upon him.

  The jianghu teemed with men like those—Foundation Establishment, blades sharp with grudge.

  He was not yet strong enough.

  Not if they returned for Kim Tun. Not if they threatened little Kim In.

  Haiyaaah… senseless.

  He settled into lotus upon the kang.

  Breath slowed. Cloud and Wave technique stirred.

  But his hand drifted to the mystic pouch.

  The crimson-tinged silver stone—trophy from the cyclopean beast—seemed to call.

  He drew it forth, warm in his palm.

  Placed it between his crossed feet.

  Then began. Qi surged inward—tide stronger than memory.

  Waves of shimmering light rose from the stone, drawn into him alongside heaven and earth’s breath.

  Twenty-eight cycles—four times seven—the full sequence that once claimed an entire night from dusk to dawn.

  He completed them.

  Rose.

  Stepped into the courtyard.

  Uncle Kim Tun entered the gate, wiping hands on apron.

  “Uncle? You are not yet asleep?”

  “Sleep?” Kim Tun laughed softly. “I only just finished clearing the tables. The sky is still light.”

  Han Sen’s heart skipped.

  He looked up. The sun hung low, painting the sky deep indigo—barely dusk.

  “Uncle… when did you bid me stay within?”

  “Just now—we spoke, you withdrew. Barely time for one stick of incense.”

  Han Sen stood silent.

  He had completed the full twenty-eight cycles.

  Yet only moments had passed.

  He returned to his chamber.

  Lit a fresh stick of incense at the kang’s far end.

  Settled again. Stone between his feet.

  Began once more.

  Twenty-eight cycles.

  Completed.

  The incense had burned scarcely a quarter.

  Wonder stirred, sharp as a new blade.

  Time bent around the crimson stone.

  He lit another stick.

  This time, one hundred and twelve cycles. Four full sequences.

  Qi roared within—vast, deeper, surging like a mountain river in spring flood.

  The incense burned away entirely.

  Cloud and Wave Art held sixteen levels.

  He had touched only the third.

  Now, with the stone’s secret unveiled, Han Sen’s eyes gleamed with quiet resolve.

  He would master them all.

  A training regimen that once demanded three months of relentless dawn-to-dusk toil was conquered in the span of a single night.

  Sixteen levels of the Cloud and Wave Art—mastered, layer upon layer, until the technique flowed through him as naturally as breath itself.

  As the sun climbed higher, gilding the valley in morning light, Han Sen emerged from his chamber.

  Power coursed through his veins—deeper, steadier, at least twice what it had been the day before, a comfortable yet formidable presence that settled in his dantian like a quiet lake beneath storm-cleared skies.

  He sought the open mountain.

  Using Five Winds, he ascended the eastern slope behind the house, light as mist rising from dew, until he found a weathered stone outcrop facing the rising sun—secluded, bathed in golden warmth, far from any eye.

  No sign of pursuers lingered in the valleys below.

  Han Sen settled into a lotus stance upon the stone, crimson silver stone cradled once more in his palm.

  He began.

  Qi drew in—richer now, warmer, infused with the sun’s own essence.

  For the first time, he felt it fully: a faint core forming within his dantian, a swirling vortex of pure yang energy drawn straight from the morning sun’s incandescent embrace, turning and burning brighter with every breath.

  He did not rise.

  He remained upon the stone, body bathed in golden light, drawing the sun’s radiance through the crimson stone as though the day itself poured into him endlessly.

  Hours passed—or so it seemed within his meditation—yet the sun hung unmoving in the sky, its warmth unending, its light a constant river feeding the growing core.

  The stone acted as conduit and mirror, bending time’s flow so that what felt like a full day—a complete cycle of twenty-four hours beneath the sun’s unwavering gaze—passed in truth as mere moments in the world below.

  Han Sen trained beneath an endless dawn, the sun’s radiant energy drawn ceaselessly into his inner reservoir, coalescing into that whirling vortex of nascent fire, strengthening the foundation he had only just forged.

  When at last he shifted from inner cultivation to outer practice, honing the Five Thunders Palm beneath the same unchanging light, he felt heat bloom beneath the lightning—a searing edge born of solar essence.

  Was lightning not fire made swift, a blazing current born of heaven’s fury?

  Strikes cracked the mountain air—brighter, hotter, carrying the sun’s own fury, power more than doubled by the long, timeless immersion.

  Only when the faint core felt stable—burn as a fireball—did Han Sen rise.

  He descended the slope.

  The valley below lay in true dusk.

  Barely half a day had passed in the waking world.

  Yet within him, a full cycle of the sun had burned.

  He returned to the inn, washed away the sweat of endless practice, and donned an apron once more.

  The midday rush waited.

  As though summoned by his newfound strength, they came again.

  Three riders—same hateful eyes, same drawn blades.

  This time, they struck at Kim Tun directly, seeking easier prey while Han Sen served tables.

  Han Sen stepped between.

  Bamboo staff rose once more.

  They attacked—three Foundation Establishment cultivators, qi thick and vicious.

  But Han Sen was no longer the youth of yesterday.

  Their eyes widened.

  In one night—and one endless day beneath the sun—he had changed.

  Staff moved like living flame.

  Five Thunders—now laced with solar heat—struck flesh and steel alike.

  Swords faltered.

  Blows landed upon backs, legs, arms—scorching, shattering.

  They staggered.

  Retreated.

  Fled into the distance, robes smoking. Han Sen lowered the staff.

  Breathe steady.

  Relief washed through him—cool after fire.

  Yet worry coiled deeper.

  Who were they? Why this hatred for a man long absent?

  He had demanded answers mid-clash.

  Only silence had answered.

  Was this the jianghu?

  Blades drawn over old debts, innocents caught in the storm?

  Beauty in such cruelty?

  Han Sen gazed toward Phoenix Mountain’s quiet peak.

  No choice remained. He must grow stronger.

  For Kim Tun. For Kim In.

  For the day when greater storms came.

  The dragon looked to the sun once more.

  And resolved to drink deeper still.

  The world, as it truly is, is steeped in violence.

  Martial arts become justification for injury, for ending lives.

  To possess skill is to scorn words, to abandon compromise. Every dispute settles beneath the edge of a blade or the weight of a palm.

  Strength does not create. It only destroys.

  And yet, to prevent destruction, one must wield greater strength.

  What pride can there be in such a cycle?

  Martial prowess may grant health, may stretch the years granted by heaven.

  But it feeds no hungry mouth. It brings no true joy to another’s heart.

  Uncle Kim Tun, with his pots and ladles, achieves more good in a single evening—filling bellies, warming spirits, drawing laughter from weary travellers—than a lifetime of fists ever could.

  His art produces. It nurtures.

  Yet in this broken world, martial skill is needed—not for glory, but to guard what produces, to restrain those who twist power into ruin and death.

  What grievance could Kim Bun bear against his own blood to warrant such hatred?

  Why must enmity toward one man spill upon an entire family, as though kinship were a single thread rather than a tapestry woven of many?

  Han Sen pondered these things as he tied his apron each morning, moving between tables with quiet diligence.

  Serving bowls of steaming noodles, tallying coins with swift fingers, wiping spills with patient hands—these small acts carried merit.

  They yielded warmth.

  They sustained life.

  In them, he found quiet pride.

  When he strengthened his martial path, it was not for vanity.

  It was a necessity.

  The three riders had been merely Foundation Establishment.

  Stronger foes would come.

  Core Formation, perhaps.

  Or beyond.

  He could not falter.

  Days filled with labor—smiling service, honest work.

  Nights given to cultivation.

  No longer twenty-eight cycles until dawn. Hundreds.

  Until the first pale light touched the horizon.

  Intensity, not mere duration.

  Two months slipped past beneath Phoenix Mountain’s watchful shadow.

  And Han Sen felt the change.

  The nascent spark within his dantian—once faint, flickering—had grown into a tangible sphere of lightning, pulsing with raw, contained power.

  It thrummed like a storm held in cupped hands.

  As though years, not months, had passed in silent forging.

  Unbeknownst to him, the true gate to Core Formation remained veiled—its threshold higher, its demands greater.

  Yet the dragon grew.

  Day by day.

  Night by night.

  And Phoenix Mountain kept its ancient silence, guarding the youth who served noodles by day and drank starlight by night.

  The storm gathered on distant horizons.

  But for now, the valley held its breath.

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