The air in the Southern District of Kaiyan tasted of charcoal, cheap wine, and unwashed humanity. It was a flavor Li Yunfan had known his entire life, as familiar as the calluses on his hands or the hollow ache in his belly that signaled the turn of the hour. From his perch on a warped tile roof, the city sprawled before him like a drunkard's dream—a chaotic tapestry of leaning tenements, overflowing market stalls, and alleys choked with shadows.
Here, in the heart of the capital's decay, the Beggar Sect was king. It was said that Heaven is high and the Emperor is far away, but in these streets, the word of the local Sect Elder carried more weight than any imperial decree.
Li Yunfan was a part of this kingdom, though he often felt like a ghost haunting its edges. At seventeen, he was wiry and tough, his frame hardened by a childhood of hunger and countless scuffles. His patched robes, dyed the color of soot and grime, marked him as a member of the Dirty Clothes Faction—the true foot soldiers of the Sect, those who begged and fought in the mud. He ran a hand over his shorn head, a nervous habit, his gaze sweeping the controlled chaos below. He was a sparrow, one of thousands, indistinguishable in the flock.
A sudden commotion from the mouth of the Street of Pickled Fish snapped him from his reverie. Three burly men, their clothes too clean and their faces too smug for this part of the city, were kicking over a noodle vendor's cart. They were members of the River Rats, a small-time gang that had been getting bolder, nibbling at the edges of the Beggar Sect's territory like carp at a lotus root. The old vendor, Uncle Wei, was on his hands and knees, frantically trying to salvage what he could from the steaming, soupy mess on the cobblestones.
Yunfan's grip tightened on the simple oak staff that never left his side. It was a peasant's tool, dark and smooth from years of use, but in his hands, it felt like an extension of his own bones. Uncle Wei paid the Sect for protection. It was a matter of principle.
Down below, a few of his fellow disciples from the Dirty Clothes Faction watched, their faces grim but hesitant. Then, another group approached, their approach heralded by the faintest scent of perfumed soap.
Duan San.
He walked with a manufactured grace, his gray robes impeccably clean and pressed. As a member of the prestigious Clean Clothes Faction—those who served as spies, information brokers, and political envoys—Duan San considered the grimy work of the streets beneath him. He was flanked by two others of his kind, their expressions masks of disdain as they surveyed the scene.
"Look at this mess," Duan San said, his voice loud enough to carry. "The River Rats grow bolder every day. If our faction can't even maintain order over a simple noodle stand, what use are they?" He didn't look at the River Rats; he looked at the Dirty Clothes disciples, his words a deliberate jab.
One of the River Rat thugs laughed. "The great Beggar Sect is too busy washing their robes to fight! Pay up, old man, or next time we'll break more than your cart."
That was it. It wasn't a decision, not a conscious choice to play the hero. It was an instinct, a spark of defiance that refused to be smothered by grime or station. With the lightness of a falling leaf, Li Yunfan dropped from the roof, landing softly in the alley behind the thugs.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't issue a challenge. He simply acted.
His first move was not from any grand manual; it was called "Annoying the Dog." He tapped his staff sharply against the knee of the largest thug, just hard enough to make the man's leg buckle with a yelp of surprise.
"Who—?"
Before the thug could finish, Yunfan flowed past him. His footwork was a chaotic, shuffling dance learned from avoiding angry merchants and navigating crowded streets. He moved to stand between the thugs and the terrified Uncle Wei. "This street is under the Sect's protection," he said, his voice even. "You've had your fun. Now leave."
Duan San, watching from a safe distance, scoffed. "An insect trying to stop a carriage. This should be amusing."
The leader of the River Rats, a man with a scar splitting his eyebrow, snarled. "A dirty beggar wants to teach us a lesson? Break his legs!"
The three thugs converged. Yunfan's world narrowed to the space around him, a whirlwind of motion and intent. The first thug swung a clumsy fist. Yunfan didn't block; he simply swayed back, the punch gliding past his nose. At the same time, his staff shot out in a move his Shifu called "Dog Chases Rabbit," a quick, sharp jab that struck the man's wrist. The man howled and stumbled back, his hand numb.
The second came from the side, his foot lashing out in a kick. Yunfan saw the movement, a crude copy of the "Tiger's Tail Kick" taught in third-rate martial academies. For a fleeting instant, something clicked in Yunfan's mind. He saw not just the kick, but the way the man's weight shifted, the slight imbalance it created. Without thinking, he mirrored the motion, his own foot sweeping low in a "Courtyard Sweep," a basic staff-and-foot technique. It wasn't perfect, but it was timed with uncanny precision. The thug's supporting leg was knocked out from under him, and he crashed onto the slick cobblestones.
It happened so fast, Yunfan barely registered it. It was muscle memory for a movement he had only just seen.
Now only the leader remained. The scarred man was more cautious. He circled Yunfan, his eyes darting from the boy's face to his staff. "You've got some tricks, little beggar. But tricks won't save you."
He lunged, his fists a flurry of blows. This was not the time for subtlety. Yunfan fell back on pure, drilled instinct. His staff became a blur, a wall of wood and motion. Block. Parry. Jab. Sweep. Each movement was economical, born from necessity. There was no flowing Qi, no brilliant inner energy lighting up his meridians. There was only his breath, his grit, and the solid, reassuring weight of his staff. He was a rock in a stream, letting the current of his opponent's fury break against him.
The scarred man grew frustrated, his attacks growing wilder. That was the opening. As the man reared back for a powerful overhead strike, Yunfan didn't retreat. He stepped in. With a sharp exhalation, he thrust the butt of his staff upward, a move called "Sparrow Pecks the Eye." It wasn't aimed at the man's eye—that was a lethal move—but at the soft spot under his chin.
Thwack.
The man's head snapped back, his eyes rolling. He staggered, his attack forgotten, and collapsed in a heap, conscious but dazed.
Silence fell over the street, broken only by the sizzle of oil on Uncle Wei's overturned stove.
Yunfan stood breathing steadily, his heart pounding not from fear, but from a strange, exhilarating clarity. He glanced at Duan San, whose face had soured from amusement to thinly veiled envy.
"A lucky brawl proves nothing," Duan San sneered, before turning on his heel. "Come. Let's not dirty our eyes with this filth." With a flick of his pristine sleeves, he and his entourage departed.
Yunfan ignored him, turning to help Uncle Wei to his feet.
"Thank you, young disciple, thank you," the old man stammered, bowing repeatedly.
"It is the Sect's duty, Uncle," Yunfan replied, his voice rough. He helped right the cart, his gaze falling upon his own reflection in a puddle of grimy water. A thin face, sharp eyes, and clothes stained with the mark of his station. A soot-stained sparrow.
Why did I do that? he wondered, the familiar question rising in his mind. The Dirty Clothes Faction valued survival above all. A smart beggar keeps his head down, avoids trouble, and lives to see another sunrise. Yet, a fire burned in him that he couldn't explain, a deep-seated hatred for bullies who preyed on the weak. Was it something his grizzled mentor, Elder Zhu, had taught him? Or was it something else? Something older, a ghost in his blood?
His hand drifted instinctively to his chest, his fingers brushing against a hard, smooth object hidden beneath his robes. It was a pendant, carved from a stone so dark it seemed to drink the light, cool to the touch even on the hottest day. It was the only thing he had from his forgotten past, the family he could not remember. Sometimes, when he fought, he imagined he could feel a faint warmth emanating from it, a silent witness to his struggles. It felt alien against his skin, a piece of a world of honor and nobility he could only imagine.
Later that evening, as he was sharing a meat bun with the other disciples who had witnessed the fight, Elder Zhu found him. The old man was built like a squat oak tree, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and scars, but his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.
"Boy," he grunted, his voice a low rumble. He tossed a small, cloth-wrapped package to Yunfan. "Your staff work is getting faster, but your head is still full of rocks. You made an enemy of Duan San today. That is more dangerous than a dozen River Rats."
"This disciple understands," Yunfan said, cupping his fists in salute.
"No, you don't," the elder sighed, scratching his grizzled beard. "But there's no use scolding a fish for swimming. I have a task for you. There is a package that needs delivering to the Jade Brush Pavilion, over in the Scholars' District."
Yunfan's eyes widened slightly. The Scholars' District was a world away from their grimy streets, a place of clean robes, polite whispers, and imperial guards. It was a place he was not welcome.
"It is a simple delivery," Elder Zhu continued, seeing his hesitation. "A gift for a patron. But the last boy I sent was… detained by the city watch. You are quicker. Be like a shadow. Get in, deliver the package to the owner, and get out. Do not speak to anyone else."
He stared at Yunfan, his expression unreadable. "The world is bigger than these few streets, boy. And far more dangerous. It's time you saw a little more of it."
Yunfan took the package. It was light, but felt heavy with the weight of his elder's trust and the unspoken warning in his eyes.
What awaited him in the world of silk and ink? And why did a simple delivery feel like the first step on a path from which there would be no return?