The days had blurred into a quiet rhythm since Jin awoke beneath unfamiliar skies. Nearly a month had passed in Fireroot Village — a tucked-away sanctuary nestled in the green curve of a forgotten valley — and though language separated him from most, presence did not. The villagers, wary at first, had warmed to his clumsy bows, quiet nature, and bizarre strength. Jin had even come to know their routines: the time when water pots clattered, when goats were led out, when the old cook sang as she chopped bitter roots for stew.
He still couldn't understand most of what they said — not truly — but he was beginning to hear their intentions in their tone, in their eyes, in the way they laughed or frowned. In turn, they had learned to understand his shrugging gestures, his amused sighs, the frustrated mutterings he gave when he burned his meals or confused spices again.
Still, small victories mattered. He had finally managed to recreate something close to home. A dish—no, a memory—made manifest on the plate. The flavors were muddled, but it stirred something in his chest: ginger, salt, a faint sweetness. It had been the first time since he awoke here that he felt connected to his past. Triumphant, he'd smiled and declared—through what he thought were carefully chosen gestures—that the old woman's food was... less than tasty.
Big mistake.
The next day, he spent the morning clutching his stomach, face pale as ash, curled beside the river, cursing silently. He'd learned his lesson. She stood nearby, arms folded and smiling with suspicious satisfaction, as if teaching a young beast humility. It was a lesson well received.
Training continued. Jin's control over his strength had improved. Where once he shattered boulders with a flick of his wrist, now he could restrain the tides within. He practiced with the students daily, especially with Ruan, the fierce-eyed girl whose arm he had once nearly broken in a careless spar. She had since become more silent around him, but there was no fear — only a steady, unspoken tension, a mutual respect born of combat.
Then came the morning when everything changed.
Jin stood outside the master's hut, the rising sun casting golden light over the wooden rooftops and terraced fields. A horse — tall, dust-colored, and temperamental — was already saddled. The wind stirred faint scents of smoke and wild mint as the students gathered around him, unsure how to say goodbye. Some bowed. Others simply stared. Ruan stood among them, eyes level, face unreadable.
He had made his decision.
The old master approached with a bundle of folded garments, provisions, and a redrawn map made simpler, more symbolic — mountains, rivers, a line showing the route toward the Central Empire. Jin nodded in thanks.
But then the master spoke again, his words slow, deliberate.
He asked a favor.
At first, Jin was reluctant. He didn't want company. Especially not someone he once hurt. But the old master's eyes were heavy with something more than request — a mixture of duty, affection, and fear.
"Take her," the old man said, gesturing to Ruan. "She burns for the path of the blade. She will not grow here. But with you… perhaps she'll learn what it means to walk it."
Jin looked at her. Ruan stepped forward and bowed deeply. It was a simple act, but it sealed it.
"…Fine," he said quietly.
Before they rode off, Jin had one last question.
"Why…" he paused, searching for the words. "Why is it that you can understand me? And I… you?"
The old master smiled faintly, his expression hard to read.
"It's not that I understand you, Jin. I understand the tongue. The language you speak… it's old. Very old."
Jin frowned. "Then… no one else…?"
"No. Not in a century," he said, brushing his beard. "You speak the language of the ancients — the Primordial Tongue once spoken across this continent when the great clans still ruled openly. Even before the empire was forged in blood and oath."
Jin was silent for a while. Then, almost embarrassed, he asked, "Your name. I never asked. What… what do I call you?"
The master chuckled softly. "Names… they are like clouds. But if you must know…" He straightened, folding his arms. "Shen Ruhai. That is the name I was born with. And the one I will die with."
"Thank you," Jin said, and meant it.
They bowed to each other, and then, like the breaking of an old thread, Jin mounted his horse. Ruan climbed hers, silent as ever.
And with that, they rode.
The dirt path curved around the hills. The forest swallowed them. And Fireroot faded behind them like the last echo of a bell.
That night, as the village returned to its usual hum, Shen Ruhai entered his quarters alone.
He locked the door.
He moved aside the woven mats, uncovering a panel in the floor. Beneath it, in a stone compartment, lay a single scroll sealed in black wax. Carefully, almost reverently, he broke the seal and unrolled it.
A series of illustrations painted in ancient brushwork filled the parchment.
Four figures.
Warriors, their silhouettes distinct — each clad in differing clan armor, weapons drawn, facing the same storm.
Flip.
The same four again, but different. This time three stood, looking at one seated upon a great throne of obsidian and jade. A crown — jagged like lightning — sat upon the figure's head.
Flip.
The four again. Younger. Wearing simpler robes. They stood together, arms slung over shoulders, faces bright with youth and laughter.
Shen Ruhai's hand trembled as he turned to the final page.
A prophecy.
Words faded with time but still legible under the flicker of lantern light:
"When the dragon forgets its scales, when the flame walks as a man and the stars call him King,
Then shall the world bleed, then shall it rise.
The crown lost will seek its bearer.
And the Martial King shall return."
The old man stared at the final line.
He sat in silence, the scroll open before him, the candle burning low.
Who truly was Jin?
Why could he speak the ancient tongue?
And why… why did he bear the aura of one who had once worn a crown of war?
Shen Ruhai closed the scroll and whispered into the dark:
"May Heaven forgive us… if he is the one."