A month had slipped by since Han Sen first took broom in hand within the cliff-carved halls of Long Men Pai.

  By the clan’s iron law, no servant might lay eyes upon the formal training of disciples. Han Sen’s labours were bound to the hours before dawn or after dusk—when the courtyards stood empty, or when masters and students filled the lower grounds.

  When the young swordsmen drilled below, he swept above. When they climbed the higher terraces, he toiled beneath. When the entire academy thrummed with the clash of steel and the shouts of instructors, he withdrew to the narrow solitude of his servant’s chamber.

  Such rules were not born of cruelty, but of caution. Long Men Pai’s arts were prized; rival clans had been known to plant spies among the lowly, hoping to steal secrets with a stolen glance. Victory in the great inter-clan tournaments had made the academy both revered and feared.

  Han Sen harboured no desire to learn their forms.

  The restrictions suited him well. They granted him vast spaces left empty, silent, his alone.

  On this sunlit afternoon, the masters and senior disciples trained far below, their session destined to stretch until twilight. Above, upon the highest terrace, Han Sen moved with the patience of falling leaves.

  He swept slowly at first, broom whispering across stone. Then, when his senses—sharpened by the pagoda’s gifts—confirmed not a single soul stirred nearby, he let the wind within him rise.

  The broom became an extension of his arm.

  Five Winds unfolded.

  In the space of twenty breaths, he crossed the entire upper training ground, feet barely brushing earth, broom strokes blending with footwork until every fallen leaf was gathered into neat spirals of dust.

  He turned to the long stone benches ringing the terrace, likewise strewn with autumn’s gold.

  A soft exhale.

  Five Thunders Palm—gentle this time, no thunder, only a ripple of compressed air.

  Leaves leapt from the benches as though caught in an autumn gale, swirling away into the void beyond the cliff.

  The terrace lay pristine.

  Time—precious, stolen time—was now his.

  Han Sen closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the quiet pulse of the mountain beneath his feet.

  Then he began to move.

  The broom spun in wide arcs—Coiling Dragon Ripping Clouds. It thrust forward like a spear—Eagle Claw to the Heavens. It swept low and rose high—Northern Thunderclap, the staff humming with restrained power.

  A common broom of bound reeds and bamboo.

  In his hands, it became a dragon’s fang.

  Each form flowed into the next, breath steady as the Dragon’s ancient rhythm, qi circulating without waste. Sweat beaded on his brow, not from strain, but from the joy of perfect motion.

  Perhaps even the clan master below could not match the refinement of these strikes.

  Perhaps no eye watched.

  Han Sen allowed himself the quiet comfort of that thought.

  He was, of course, mistaken. The flow of his qi was detected by trained perception from the peak of Long Men Pai.

  “Who trains in secret upon our grounds?” Bu Sin Tong, Sect Master of Long Men Pai, asked his three elders: Phoa Hok Kim, Lui Kham Leng, and Sin Ciu Tak.

  The elders shook their heads in unison, faces grave as winter stone.

  “Sect Master,” Lui Kham Leng said, voice low, “his internal qi resonates with power beyond our grasp. A force like mountain wind—unseen, yet shaking the earth.”

  “Indeed,” Sin Ciu Tak added. “His speed defies the eye. I sought to watch yesterday, but whenever I drew within two li, he vanished like mist before dawn.”

  Phoa Hok Kim sighed, long and heavy. “Only the Grand Elder might wield such arts, but he has sworn never to meddle in worldly affairs.”

  Bu Sin Tong felt the world tilt beneath him. His own skill barely surpassed the elders’. If this shadow swept their halls unseen…

  “Let it be,” he said at last. “As long as he disrupts no order, let him practise. Perhaps he seeks only shelter. No harm comes while he remains unseen.”

  He decreed it so—knowledge sealed among the inner circle.

  Meanwhile, Han Sen finished sweeping the highest terrace, broom whispering across stone still warm from morning sun.

  His diligence drew him to the library—a vast hall carved into the cliff, three floors of scrolls and silence. Servants might clean, but never touch a single page—not first floor, not second, least of all the sacred third.

  He worked with reverence toward the elderly guardian, head bowed, power veiled beneath servant grey.

  Dust motes danced in shafts of light as he swept each level: third, small and secluded; second, wide with ancient texts; first, vast and trampled by careless feet.

  The pleasure of a pristine library was lost on disciples, who passed through like storms.

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  For Han Sen, it was quiet joy—his silent offering to the halls that sheltered him.

  He knelt upon the first floor, scrubbing with both hands, head bowed in focus.

  A pair of feet blocked his path.

  He rose swiftly, performing the perfect shoubei li.

  “Greetings, Elder,” he said, voice low and reverent.

  “Heh heh,” the elder chuckled, eyes glinting like polished jade. “You are Han Sen, are you not?”

  “I am, Elder,” Han Sen replied, surprise flickering beneath calm.

  A month of service, and this was the first time the guardian—who guarded scrolls more jealously than his own life—had spoken his name.

  “Why do you not become a disciple of Long Men Pai?” the elder pressed, smile unwavering.

  “My humble self desires not the path of disciple, only to serve within these halls.”

  “And why servitude?”

  “Long Men Pai offers shelter and sustenance, a refuge I could not otherwise find.”

  “Have you no home?”

  “Ehh… no. My father departed this world before I was born. My mother… I know not where she resides, vanished long ago.”

  “So you are solitary?”

  “Indeed. This service is my gratitude.”

  The elder nodded slowly, eyes soft with melancholy understanding.

  “What if you became my disciple?”

  “Ehh… forgive me, Elder, but I already have a master. I cannot take another.”

  “What? Another school? From what sect do you hail?”

  “Ehh, no, no. I am a disciple of no school, no sect.”

  “Then where is your master?”

  “My master… I am not entirely certain of his whereabouts,” Han Sen mumbled, scratching his head.

  “If your master’s location is unknown, what difficulty in becoming mine? Surely he is unaware of your existence?”

  “Ah… no, no. Forgive me, Elder. Respect and filial piety toward a master are sacred, even if absent and unknowing.”

  “Hmph. What can your master accomplish that I, Lauw Pek Khian, cannot? Never have I been refused.”

  Han Sen bowed slightly. “Forgive me, Elder Lauw, but I must remain true to my master.”

  “Very well. Step outside. Let us exchange blows. I am curious what this ‘master’ taught.”

  That afternoon, Han Sen inwardly sighed at the challenge he could not refuse.

  He took shoubei li in the deserted courtyard, stance still as a mountain lake.

  Lauw Pek Khian stood two zhang distant.

  “Withstand three strikes, and I acknowledge your master.”

  Qi surged in the elder. Devil Subduing Fist—thirty-six variations of Shaolin boxing, Long Men Pai’s splinter heritage.

  Han Sen matched it with Five Thunders Palm, restrained to half strength—mindful of the pagoda’s gifts that could shatter bone too easily.

  As his stance settled, Lauw Pek Khian gasped.

  That posture—the one from legends. The mysterious figure who shattered Shaolin’s Iron Arhat.

  The elder lunged, full qi unleashed.

  Han Sen met the first strike. Palm blocked in five directions, stifling Devil Subduing Fist’s flow.

  It was not three strikes.

  Thirty movements later, Lauw Pek Khian retreated, gasping, footing lost.

  The elder staggered back, eyes wide with shock.

  “You… the posture of the Arhat Breaker.”

  Han Sen bowed, silent.

  The courtyard fell still.

  The hidden dragon had been seen.

  “Enough! Enough—I yield!” Elder Lauw Pek Khian gasped, staggering back several paces, chest heaving beneath his grey robes.

  Han Sen cupped his hands and bowed deeply, voice calm as still water.

  “Han Sen thanks Elder Lauw for the guidance bestowed.”

  Lauw Pek Khian wiped sweat from his brow, eyes wide with wonder and a trace of wry amusement.

  “Hmph. Your master… if memory serves, the jianghu once whispered his name as the Five-Directional Martial God, did it not?”

  Han Sen’s heart stirred. “Does Elder know my master?”

  “No, no.” The elder shook his head, gaze distant. “I was but a boy then, a novice monk at Shaolin. Yet no disciple forgets that day. It has been many years… and now he has taken you as disciple?”

  “Indeed, Elder.”

  Lauw Pek Khian’s breath caught, reverence softening his weathered face.

  “Ah… has he… has he finally stepped into the Immortal Realm? Truly remarkable.”

  Han Sen had lived beside Lou Siat for years—shared simple meals, trained beneath the same moon—yet never felt anything beyond mortal warmth. The words “Immortal Realm” hung like mist he could not grasp.

  “Forgive my ignorance, Elder,” he said, bowing again. “What is this Immortal Realm you speak of?”

  “Your master never told you?” Lauw Pek Khian’s brows rose. “Then you walk the Path without its map. Very well—I shall speak plainly.”

  He folded his hands into wide sleeves, voice steady as an old bell.

  “Those who tread the martial way fall into two streams.

  The first forge body and bone alone—strength, speed, endurance—until flesh becomes weapon. Many in the jianghu stop here.

  The second are born with open meridians, vessels through which heaven and earth’s qi may flow.

  The first realm is Qi Condensation—awakening that qi, gathering it like mist into cloud, filling dantian and channels.

  When the cloud is full, the second realm comes: Foundation Establishment. Qi is compressed, refined, forged into a stable base upon which one may dream of immortality.

  Third: Core Formation. The foundation condenses into a core—golden, crimson, or colourless—holding qi like a lake behind a dam.

  Fourth: Nascent Soul. The spirit detaches, forms a tiny self that may leave the body and endure even if flesh falls.

  Fifth: Soul Formation. That tiny self grows, roots deeper into the Dao.

  Sixth: Soul Transformation. The soul reshapes, aligning with heaven’s laws.

  Seventh: Ascendance. One faces the final tribulation, shatters the cage of mortality, and rises as immortal.

  Only those favoured by heaven walk this road. In the days of Sui, tales of ascendance still drifted on the wind.

  But since our Tang began, such stories have faded. Even the temples of Wudang have returned to prayer and incense, their swords sheathed in memory.”

  He fell silent, eyes searching Han Sen’s face.

  “Your master’s posture… the Five Thunders stance… once shattered Shaolin’s Iron Arhat. If he has guided you this far, then perhaps the heavens have not forgotten the old paths after all.”

  Han Sen stood quietly beneath the elder’s gaze.

  “Is there no one who has attained the Immortal Realm?” Han Sen asked, wonder and confusion mingling in his voice.

  “None,” Lauw Pek Khian replied, eyes distant as old memories. “Even to possess deep qi is a rarity now. Young Han Sen… how did you come by such formidable inner strength?”

  Han Sen bowed slightly, mind racing. “It… is difficult to explain. Forgive me.”

  The pagoda had vanished from the world. Lou Siat’s teachings, Wang Cu Lei’s legacy—these were not for careless tongues.

  “With power like yours,” the elder pressed, “why remain a servant in Long Men Pai?”

  “As I said before,” Han Sen answered quietly, “these halls offer shelter and contentment. It is enough.”

  “Ah… very well,” Lauw Pek Khian conceded, shifting his stance. “Return to your duties, then. Forgive the interruption.”

  Han Sen bowed again and withdrew to the library, mops in hand once more. He polished the stone floors in silence, thoughts drifting like dust motes in sunlight.

  He knew nothing of the truth—that Lauw Pek Khian was the hidden Grand Elder of Long Men Pai, a master who had long withdrawn from the jianghu to guard the scrolls in solitude, unseen by disciples.

  That evening, the Grand Elder sought out Sect Master Bu Sin Tong.

  He spoke of the youth who swept floors yet wielded qi like a storm held in check.

  Bu Sin Tong listened, astonishment deepening into calculation.

  Plans formed in the quiet hours.

  And that night, they were set in motion.

  Han Sen received his supper as always—a special feast this time: honey-glazed roasted chicken, its aroma rich and inviting.

  “How did this meat come?” he asked a kitchen servant.

  “By order of the Elder,” the boy whispered.

  Han Sen’s face lit with rare delight. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  He ate heartily, every bite a small joy, until the plate lay clean. He ignores the faint bitter taste within the chicken meat.

  Then weariness fell upon him like mountain mist.

  Sleep claimed him swiftly in his narrow alcove.

  Morning brought cold stone beneath his back.

  He woke in a damp cavern, a single candle flickering against rough walls.

  Qi stirred within—then faltered.

  The familiar river of inner strength, the breath of Five Winds, the thunder of Five Thunders—all gone.

  His dantian lay empty, meridians silent as winter graves.

  Han Sen rose slowly, heart steady despite the chill.

  The dragon had been chained.

  And in the darkness, he waited to learn why.

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