The wheels of fate turned gently as Shen rode alone, his horse's hooves drumming steady rhythm across the hardened dirt path that split through towering hills and wide plains. The messenger's robes fluttered in the wind like a crimson banner of the imperial east, embroidered with the golden crest of the Xi'an Dynasty, its edges weighed down by road dust and dried blood. Slung tightly to his back was the sealed object he'd nearly died protecting — a weapon wrapped in dragon silk and secured with a seal that shimmered faintly with heatless silver fire.
He hadn't looked back since the mountain village. That strange man — Jin — lingered in his thoughts like a thorn embedded deep in bark. No aura, no Zin signature… yet able to swat grown men like flies. He hadn't even tried. Shen pressed his lips tight and exhaled.
"Impossible," he murmured. "No one should move like that…"
The path veered down into the Wushen Ravine, a mist-shrouded valley that split two great cliffs like a god's wound upon the earth. The world here was quiet. No birds. Only the sound of trickling water and the faint whisper of wind between stones.
A carved archway stood partway through, its stone worn smooth by time. The ancient calligraphy etched into its sides was faded but legible — "Those who step where spirits rest must tread with clean hearts." A sacred place, the locals said. Shen dismounted and walked his horse through, mindful of the silence.
Beyond the ravine, the lands began to change.
The Sunken Forests of Mihao appeared like a ghost, trees that grew from shallow swamps, their roots gnarled above water. Lantern beetles blinked lazily across the treetops, and in the distance, a shimmering carp dragon danced over a foggy lake — a rare spirit beast, said to bring luck.
Shen pressed onward through rice terraces carved into crescent moons, dotted by farmers wearing wide straw hats. A child pointed at him as he rode past, wide-eyed. Shen merely nodded, drawing his red cowl over his head.
By the second day, the land sloped upward into steppes of red rock, and in the distance, the ancient towers of Shuye began to rise, cloaked in cloud.
Shuye, Eastern Court of the Xi'an Dynasty.
To say it was grand would be a lie of understatement.
Shuye sat upon a massive plateau carved into the side of the Mountains of Whispering Ash, its walls built from jade-hued stones and reinforced with spirit runes that pulsed like breath. Spiral towers, capped in silver tiles, rose among cherry blossom trees that never seemed to shed. Birds with crystal feathers swooped through floating gardens suspended by spiritual arrays. The scent of lotus, sandalwood, and rain lingered in the air.
Shen dismounted at the gates, presenting his seal to the waiting guards clad in deep indigo armor and silver masks. Their leader, a woman with a scar across her brow, looked him over.
"Messenger from the West?"
Shen nodded. "From the central relay at Yunzhou. I bring the sealed package requested by Lord Bi'an."
The gates parted with a smooth hum of spiritual-infused metal. Shen was ushered through wide courtyards filled with meditating disciples, scholars moving like water across calligraphy steps, and guards training with silent precision.
He was led through a spiral corridor of white marble until they reached the inner sanctum.
The Hall of Seven Voids.
It was not a court filled with noise and gold. It was silence. Controlled, reverent silence.
And upon a raised dais, framed by silken banners of pale silver, sat Lord Bi'an.
Clad in flowing robes the color of snow and night, Lord Bi'an looked to be no older than thirty, yet bore the eyes of someone who had lived many lives. His long black hair was tied in a loose braid, and a crown of silver wood sat lightly atop his brow.
He turned as Shen entered, voice smooth as glass.
"You've arrived sooner than expected."
Shen kneeled and presented the package.
"Bandits attempted interception. They failed. I owe thanks to an... outsider. Unregistered martial artist, or perhaps not a martial artist at all."
Lord Bi'an raised a brow. With a motion of his hand, a thin wisp of Zin snaked from his sleeve and circled the package. The moment it touched, the silk bindings pulsed violently, resisting, and Shen felt the force ripple like a heartbeat in the air. Lord Bi'an frowned.
"Still sealed. Still… silent."
He accepted the item and placed it beside him.
"You mentioned an outsider?"
"Strange man. No name given at first. Eventually, 'Jin.' No surname."
Bi'an's eyes narrowed faintly. Something shifted behind them.
"And what did this 'Jin' do?"
"Casually defeated five bandits. One blow each. No Zin, no form, no technique. Just… strength."
Silence lingered again.
Lord Bi'an stood and walked to the tall window that overlooked the entire court. The mountains framed him like ghosts.
"There are echoes in the world," he said quietly, "that stir when forgotten things awaken."
He turned.
"Rest, messenger. You've done your duty. But remember the name. Jin."
And in the distant mountain village, beneath a lazy sun and drifting blossoms, Jin stared at his bowl of soup with a frown.
"Still this watery stuff?"
The cook behind the stall sharpened a cleaver slowly.
Jin shuddered.
The sky above the village had barely begun to brighten when the old master found Jin lounging atop a haystack, staring at the sky like it owed him something.
"Young man," the master called, voice sharp like a cold wind. "Are you planning to die ignorant, or just lazy?"
Jin groaned. "Can't it be both?"
The master sighed, stepping onto the platform of the training grounds. "Enough wandering the hills like a headless ox. You said you want to understand the world. Zin is the world."
Jin tilted his head, brows furrowing. "You keep saying that, but Zin is just... power, isn't it?"
"No. Zin is rhythm. It is breath, motion, balance. To move without Zin is to fight against the world. To move with it is to become the world." He jabbed a crooked finger toward the scroll Jin had left rolled on a bench. "Get up. Show me the first form."
Jin stood lazily, stretching like a cat. He dragged his feet to the center and mimicked the movements he remembered. "Like this?"
"No. Not like. Be."
Jin sighed again, more dramatic this time, but he stepped into the First Form of the Tide's Root Style. Arms extended, right foot back, breathing shallow.
He began the flow.
Each motion seemed too loose, too exaggerated. His fingers curled when they shouldn't, his center of gravity was slightly off—until something in him clicked. Unconsciously, Jin's body adjusted mid-flow. His shoulders relaxed into the correct position. His feet rebalanced. His hips turned not a second too soon, and his breathing synced with each movement.
By the time he completed the form, he was panting lightly. Not from exertion, but confusion.
The old master was quiet, stroking his beard. "You shouldn't have been able to correct those mistakes. That only happens after dozens of attempts."
"I don't know, it just… felt wrong, so I moved different," Jin replied, rubbing the back of his neck.
The old man narrowed his eyes. "Again."
They repeated the drills. This time, the old master interjected mid-movement, correcting postures, angles, even breath timing. He explained how the Tide's Root Form was based on the ebb and flow of ocean currents. It wasn't brute force—it was redirection. Circles and spirals. One movement blending into another like waves crashing onto sand, then drawing back into the sea.
"Your elbows must dip in the turning motion. This form roots your stance so you can absorb and reflect. Zin rides through the limbs—feel it, don't force it."
They drilled again. And again. Jin grumbled at first, but slowly began to follow along. As the sun climbed higher, sweat gleamed on his brow.
Then came the test.
"Take this," the old master said, tossing a basic training sword toward Jin.
Jin caught it and swung. Effortless. Just a simple arc.
CRACK!
The blade shattered halfway through the swing. The hilt jolted in his hand, and he stumbled back. "You gave me a defective sword!"
He stepped forward in protest—and crack, his foot sank through the wooden floorboard like it was soggy paper.
"Oh come on!"
Jin flailed as he tried to pull himself out, grumbling like a child caught in a well. "I just fixed these boots too!"
The old master stared, lips twitching in bemusement.
"What kind of grown man throws a tantrum like that?" he muttered.
Eventually, Jin managed to stand again, brushing off his tunic. "What was that? Why did that happen?"
"You're not normal," the old man said simply. "Your strength… it's too refined, yet too raw. You're not controlling it. It's leaking."
Jin blinked. "So you're saying I need more training?"
The master raised a brow.
Jin groaned and rolled his eyes. "I'd rather explore the land. Learn about these weird names, these courts, valleys, clans. Not punch things all day."
But deep down, he knew the old man was right. Every time he tried to ignore it, the world forced him back. The bandits. The messenger. The sword. The map.
Something wanted him to learn.
Still grumbling, Jin followed the master back toward the kitchens. Maybe the strange cook would spare his life this time.
Far to the North — In the Snow-Blood Mountains
The wind howled like wolves through the jagged white peaks. Most considered the Blooded Range uninhabitable. A graveyard of ancient beasts and forgotten martial dynasties. But something stirred in the ice that day.
BOOM.
A column of snow erupted from a hillside as a hand burst through.
A moment later, a figure tumbled out, coughing and cursing. Snow fell from her like shattered glass. Her body trembled not from cold—but from disorientation. She staggered, slipped, caught herself again.
"Where in the thirteen frozen hells am I?" she muttered.
She stood, snow sliding off her hard frame. She looked like a goddess carved from storm-stone. Beneath the red-tipped silver hair and porcelain skin, every muscle was taut, honed, battle-worn. Her breath steamed in the air like fire.
She turned, one bare foot cracking the ground beneath.
THUD. Half the mountainside crumbled behind her step.
Her ruby eyes scanned the horizon. Nothing looked familiar. Even the Zin in the air felt different, more dense. More alive.
She frowned, then smirked. "So I'm back…"
She turned eastward and spoke into the wind, voice low, deadly, reverent.
"I need to find the Martial King."