Two years passed.
Zhao Long walked the forgotten roads of the Cadia Riverlands—through ruined temples, sleeping forests, and towns too poor for maps. He had no home, no banner, and no master.
Yet wherever he went, stories followed:
> A lone spear-wielder defeating bandits in a single breath.
A man in grey robes saving a caravan without shedding blood.
A ghost of a disciple who fought without anger.
He never gave his name.
He asked for no thanks.
He only moved on.
---
One autumn dusk, deep in the Stonebone Ravine, Zhao Long found himself surrounded.
Twelve men with rusted weapons crept from the trees. They wore no uniforms—just red cloth tied around their arms. Bandits. One stepped forward, licking cracked lips.
"That's a nice spear," he sneered. "Hand it over and you can keep walking."
Zhao Long didn't move. He didn't raise the spear.
He only asked, "Why do you rob travelers?"
The bandit laughed. "Why not? The strong take, the weak serve. That's the way of the world."
A moment passed.
Zhao Long bowed once.
Then the wind shifted.
---
When it was over, not one bandit stood.
But none were dead.
Only groaning, arms and legs disarmed with pinpoint strikes. The spear never broke skin. It danced—like a dragon's tail.
Zhao Long stood alone again, the spear tip still, breath steady.
From the shadows beyond the trees, someone clapped.
"Good form," came a voice like rumbling earth. "But wasted."
---
A giant of a man stepped out from the woods.
Cloaked in turtle-scale armor, his beard like hanging moss, and his eyes—ancient, amused, and sad all at once. He walked with a crooked staff and carried no visible weapon, yet something about him warped the air.
Zhao Long turned, expression calm.
"You watched?"
"I observe many things," the old man replied. "But very few move like you. Very few fight like they're praying."
Zhao Long studied him. "Who are you?"
The giant grinned. "A relic. A mountain that walks. They once called me Xuan Zhu—the Mystic Tortoise."
Zhao Long's brow shifted, just a little.
He had heard the name. A legendary warrior said to have stood beside Immortals in the Endless War—a time when beasts and gods still walked among men.
---
"You're looking for something," Xuan Zhu said.
"No," Zhao Long replied. **"I left looking for nothing."
"Then perhaps it's time to find what you were born for."
He extended his hand—not in invitation, but in recognition.
---
The Road to the Dragon Altar
They walked for days.
Xuan Zhu spoke in riddles. About rivers with memories, dragons that sleep in clouds, and a war that never truly ended.
He said:
> "Long ago, the Four Immortals—Cloud Dragon, Vermilion Bird, Mystic Tortoise, and White Tiger—gave up their forms and passed their spirits into chosen disciples. Those who receive their blessings become Oriental Fighters."
> "But not all are chosen by fire or ceremony. Some... are chosen by action."
Zhao Long said little.
But at night, he dreamt of thunder curling around his spear, and a dragon's eye watching him from the sky.
---
On the seventh day, they arrived.
The Dragon Altar was carved into the bones of a mountain. Massive stone dragon heads watched over the training grounds. Water flowed through ancient channels, glowing faintly in moonlight.
Waiting there was another figure—sharp-eyed, elegant, and calm like wind before a storm.
"Yao Lun Ling," said Xuan Zhu. "Your brother has arrived."
Zhao Long tilted his head. "Brother?"
Lun Ling only smiled and offered a hand.
"Not by blood. But by fate."