The moment Elder Han dismissed the training session, the quiet discipline of the yard dissolved almost immediately. Disciples stretched their stiff legs and began talking again, some laughing while others groaned about the long meditation. A few were still excited about the faint glimpses of resonance they had managed to sense, while most complained openly about feeling absolutely nothing.

  Chunma rose slowly from the ground, brushing dried mud from the knees of his robe. The faint warmth that had gathered in his chest during the exercise had not fully disappeared, though the drifting golden particles he had been observing seemed to have vanished with the end of the meditation.

  So the sensation lingered even after the particles faded.

  Interesting.

  He remained still for a moment, watching the other disciples disperse. Several of them excitedly surrounded the boy who had briefly produced the crimson shimmer earlier, asking him what it had felt like. The boy himself seemed just as confused as they were, repeating that it had simply happened while he was breathing.

  Chunma observed the conversation quietly.

  Nyros. The pillar that strengthened the body.

  The explanation Elder Han had given earlier replayed itself in Chunma’s mind as he turned toward the edge of the yard, intending to leave.

  He had taken only a few steps before someone called out behind him.

  “Hey.”

  Chunma stopped.

  The voice carried the same irritation he had heard earlier that morning.

  He turned his head slightly.

  The three boys from before were approaching him again, their wooden staffs still in hand. The leader’s expression had darkened considerably since the earlier exchange, and the two boys behind him wore matching smirks as they followed.

  “Well look at this,” the leader said as he stopped a few steps away. “The rat thinks he can just walk away now.”

  Chunma regarded them calmly.

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  The answer only seemed to irritate the boy further.

  “Oh, you’ve got plenty to say,” he replied, tapping the end of his staff against his shoulder. “You embarrassed me earlier.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Several nearby disciples slowed their steps, sensing trouble. Though none of them openly interfered, a few lingered at the edges of the yard to watch.

  Chunma studied the three boys quietly.

  Then something stirred in the back of his mind.

  Memories that were not his.

  Cold nights in the settlement.

  Being shoved aside in food lines.

  Stolen bread.

  Blows that came without warning.

  The body he now inhabited had endured this many times before.

  The resentment attached to those memories was dull but persistent.

  Chunma exhaled slowly.

  So this was the life the previous owner of this body had lived.

  The leader stepped forward suddenly and jabbed his staff toward Chunma’s chest.

  This time Chunma did not move away.

  Instead his hand rose and caught the wooden shaft mid-strike.

  The sudden stop surprised the boy.

  “What—”

  Before he could react, Chunma twisted the staff sharply.

  The motion was simple and precise, a technique meant to break an opponent’s grip rather than overpower it.

  The boy’s hands slipped instantly.

  The staff came free.

  Chunma stepped forward at the same time and drove his palm into the boy’s chest.

  The strike was not particularly strong, but it landed directly against the boy’s balance.

  He stumbled backward several steps before falling into the mud.

  For a moment the yard fell silent.

  The other two boys stared in disbelief.

  “You—”

  One of them lunged forward angrily.

  Chunma stepped slightly to the side as the boy rushed past him. His elbow drove into the disciple’s ribs with controlled precision.

  The boy gasped sharply as the air left his lungs.

  Before he could recover, Chunma hooked one foot behind his ankle and pushed lightly.

  The disciple collapsed forward into the dirt.

  The third boy hesitated.

  Uncertainty crossed his face.

  Chunma looked at him calmly.

  “Are you going to attack,” he asked quietly, “or are you finished?”

  The boy flushed with anger and charged forward.

  His staff swung wildly toward Chunma’s head.

  Chunma stepped inside the arc of the strike.

  His hand struck the boy’s wrist.

  The staff fell from numb fingers.

  A moment later Chunma’s knee drove into the boy’s stomach.

  The disciple doubled over and dropped beside the others.

  The entire yard had gone quiet.

  Several disciples were openly staring now.

  Chunma looked down at the three boys lying in the mud.

  The anger from the earlier memories had already faded. What remained was simple observation.

  Their movements had been careless.

  Untrained.

  Predictable.

  He bent slightly and picked up the fallen staff.

  Then he tossed it lightly toward the leader.

  The weapon landed beside him with a dull thud.

  “You should train more,” Chunma said calmly.

  A quiet voice spoke behind him.

  “That is enough.”

  Chunma turned.

  Elder Han stood a short distance away, watching.

  The three boys scrambled to their feet immediately, their earlier aggression gone.

  “N-nothing happened, Elder,” the leader muttered.

  Elder Han ignored him.

  His gaze moved slowly to Chunma.

  For several seconds the elder said nothing.

  Then he spoke calmly.

  “Training is finished.”

  The watching disciples quickly began dispersing again, pretending they had not been observing the confrontation.

  Chunma turned and walked away from the yard without another word.

  Behind him, Elder Han remained where he stood.

  His eyes followed the boy’s retreating figure.

  The movements he had just witnessed were not those of an untrained beggar.

  They were precise.

  Deliberate.

  Disciplined.

  For a brief moment during the exchange, he could have sworn he saw faint golden particles flicker around the boy’s arm.

  But when he looked again, they were gone.

  Elder Han folded his hands behind his back.

  And continued watching.