The stone cell was damp and dim, its only light a shaft of pale daylight creeping in from the slit above. Tomorrow would be the day—life or death, freedom or chains.
Jin leaned back against the wall, arms folded, eyes half-lidded. He looked calm, but deep inside, his thoughts were anything but idle. Ruan… He could feel it. Something gnawed at him—a weight that had nothing to do with the chains. He couldn't explain why, but he knew she was suffering somewhere beyond these walls.
Xiǎoyè lay sprawled across his lap, its absurdly long tail coiling and uncoiling like a rope, the purple underside of its belly faintly glowing in the gloom. Jin had been inspecting the creature for the better part of an hour: poking its paw pads, tugging its bat-like wings, and even holding its tail at full length in disbelief.
"This tail's longer than your whole body… honestly, what are you?" Jin muttered, turning the cat this way and that like a scholar examining a rare artifact.
Xiǎoyè mewled, annoyed, and snapped its jaw at his hand.
Jin just sighed and pulled it against his chest. For all its mystery, the cat was comforting. Still, that unease about Ruan lingered. She'll be forced to fight too. Can she handle it alone? He pushed the thought aside, jaw tightening.
Without another word, Jin stripped off his robe, tying it loosely around his waist. He cracked his neck.
Xiǎoyè tilted its head, blinking. Then, its mouth dropped open in mock shock, as if the very idea was impossible.
Jin narrowed his eyes. "Oi. You think I'm lazy, don't you?"
The cat's silence was damning.
"…Unbelievable. Even my cat insults me," Jin grumbled, then stomped once as if to scare it.
But instead of sulking, he planted his palms to the floor. One push-up.
The earth cracked. A jagged fissure tore through the stone floor and crawled up the cell wall. Dust rained from above.
Jin froze, eyes wide. "…Oh."
Xiǎoyè stared, unimpressed.
Jin chuckled nervously, then set his jaw. "Alright… let's try that again. Control. Slowly this time."
He began again. Push-ups, squats, strikes into the air—testing, adjusting, holding back. Every movement threatened destruction, yet he forced himself to moderate it. He knew well enough: uncontrolled power kills without meaning. And Jin had no interest in meaningless kills.
"Kill when it's convenient," he muttered under his breath, a small smile curling his lips.
That smile made Xiǎoyè's fur bristle.
Then Jin shifted. His body fell into familiar stances—the Tide Root style. The forms were hazy in his memory, but his body remembered them. Muscle memory stronger than thought. That was what unsettled him most.
"Fine," he muttered. "Body, you lead the way."
He began with the first form—slow waves, steady, grounding the stance like roots gripping riverbeds. His arms cut the air in arcs, his legs pivoted and sank, his shoulders rolled.
One form, then another. The second. The third. His body slipped into rhythm, flowing, correcting itself instinctively. Each mistake refined. Each motion sharper. Jin scowled, but continued, sweat streaking his back. He was supposed to hate this. He did hate this. Yet…
By the time he reached the fourth form, something clicked. His body refused to simply repeat the old patterns. Instead, it fused them. The sweeping guard of the second form melted into the crashing strike of the fourth. His arms moved in a spiral, legs rooted yet shifting fluidly, like waves folding back into themselves.
He moved step by step:
Left foot anchored, right foot sliding in a crescent.
Right arm sweeping low, twisting upward in a rising arc.
Left fist coiling back, then driving forward with the weight of a collapsing tide.
The body pivoted, both movements flowing seamlessly into one another, forming a single continuous strike.
The air hummed. The sequence ended in stillness, his chest rising and falling.
For a heartbeat, Jin said nothing. Then, softly, he laughed.
"…So that's it."
He sank down cross-legged, eyes half-lidded, voice carrying the strange tone of a philosopher who had stumbled onto a truth.
"Water doesn't fight the stone—it shapes it. Roots don't resist the river—they hold because they bend. True strength isn't in holding back or letting go. It's in flowing, reshaping, refusing to break."
He laughed harder, pressing a hand to his face. "Ha! Listen to me, talking like some old monk. I hate this. I hate martial arts. But… that? That was something."
Xiǎoyè purred and rubbed against him, tail curling around his arm. In its glowing eyes, Jin was already something more than human.
Across the prison, in another wing, Ruan sat in her chains, blood on her lip. The guards had questioned her again, beaten her again, disbelieved her again.
And yet, when they left, she laughed. Not a laugh of madness, but of revelation.
Through the hours of torment she had watched, she had learned. The way a single strike to the jaw unbalanced a man's entire body. The way a blow just beneath the ribs stole breath faster than any broken bone. Weaknesses everywhere, if one looked closely enough.
There are many ways to win without brute strength. Many ways to cripple without killing.
Her smile was grim. She felt she had uncovered something small but sharp. Something useful.
And in his cell, Jin froze mid-laugh, turning his head sharply. For no reason, he felt it—a strange, dark thrill, as though the world had whispered a secret.
And he liked it.
Later at night.
The night air outside the clan compound was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the faint creak of lanterns swaying in the breeze. Xiǎoyè padded across the courtyard, tail flicking with the smug rhythm only a cat could own.
In the corner, tied to a post, the horse snorted violently the moment it saw the cat.
"Monster! Abomination! You pest in fur clothing!" it neighed, thrashing its head. "Your very existence insults my noble lineage! I'll escape soon and be rid of your cursed shadow!"
Xiǎoyè sat down right in front of the horse, licking a paw with deliberate slowness. Then, in a tone dripping with disdain, it said,
"Pipe down, glue stick. No one's impressed."
The horse's ears twitched back. "What did you call me!?"
"I said," Xiǎoyè flicked its tail, "pipe down. Jin is far too busy doing things that matter to notice a dumb tool like you. Did you hear? He stood up to the clan leader. Protected Ruan. Actually trained—trained! And then got enlightened." The cat's eyes gleamed with pride. "My master… is a genius."
There was a long silence. The horse stared blankly, unblinking. Finally it let out a low, incredulous snort.
"…Jin. And the word 'genius'… in the same sentence? Did my ears rot, or have you lost your tiny flea-ridden mind?"
The cat's paw lashed out, smacking the horse's muzzle with a sharp pop!
"How dare you! Insulting my glorious master—watch your filthy mouth, you hay-brained mule!"
The horse bared its teeth, eyes rolling. "Filthy mouth? You lick your own rear! And don't pretend you're special—at the end of the day, you're just a puffball pest my master tolerates. I carry him across mountains; you shed fur on his clothes."
Xiǎoyè's whiskers twitched dangerously. "And yet, I am loved. Adored. Cherished. Worshipped. You? You're just transportation. Jin only feeds you because starving beasts don't run fast."
"Ha!" the horse snorted. "At least I'm useful! You? You're a furry parasite!"
"Better a parasite than a brainless wagon-puller!"
The insults flew back and forth, escalating into a rhythm so sharp it sounded almost rehearsed. If any disciple had been walking by at that moment, they would've stopped dead, mouth hanging open, wondering: Since when did cats and horses learn to argue like street thugs?
The answer was obvious.
They had one thing in common.
A master with a mouth sharper than any sword.