His name was Jing Kong.
Though his body was frail, his spirit was not.
On the slope outside the village, Jing stood shirtless beneath the dim moonlight, his chest rising and falling as he practiced a crude set of movements. His arms cut stiffly through the air, his feet stamped the earth in awkward rhythm. The stance was old, a rough pattern passed down by his grandfather, who in his youth had been nothing more than a lowly servant in a martial clan.
"Press down your breath until the body shakes," the old man had once said. "Strength comes only by breaking yourself and reforging."
Jing obeyed those words night after night. He pressed, he shook, and his body often felt as if it might crack apart. His weak leg—his curse since birth—trembled more violently than the rest. When he placed weight upon it, pain stabbed from thigh to ankle. Often he fell. Often he bit his tongue until it bled rather than scream.
And yet he continued.
"Even if my leg breaks, I won't stop," Jing muttered into the night, wiping sweat from his brow.
The forest around him gave no answer but the hum of insects.
Still he continued. Again and again, he drove his body through the incomplete method until his chest burned and his breath scraped like knives. His grandfather's technique was meant for servants, not warriors; it demanded more than a weak body could endure. But Jing had no choice. Without strength, he was nothing. Without strength, he could protect no one.
The thought of Lian rose in his mind, soft as a secret flame.
Lian lived in the neighboring village, a short walk along the river path. Her beauty was known even among the poor. Her hair fell to her waist like black silk, her eyes shone with a brightness that unsettled those who gazed too long, and her smile had a way of silencing quarrels. She was his only joy, his secret treasure.
She had sworn to him many times: "Even if we starve, I'll never leave your side."
Jing believed her words. They warmed him in the cold of night.
But unknown to him, her family had begun to listen to another voice. A distant uncle, who lived on the edge of the city and traded there, had visited. Seeing Lian's face, he told her parents plainly:
"With this beauty, she can capture the eye of a young master. Bring her to the city, and doors will open. Why chain her to this crippled boy in a dying village?"
Her parents, weary of poverty, found the argument tempting. Lian resisted, but she could not refuse outright. Inside, fear and guilt twisted her heart. She still met Jing beneath the willow trees, still whispered love to him in the dark. Yet each time she saw his limp, each time she saw his body collapse under training, the uncle's words echoed within her.
Jing knew nothing of this. For him, there was only the struggle to become strong.
His crippled body made others mock him. He wanted strength not only to defend himself but to prove he wasn't destined to crawl in the mud forever.
That night, as his limbs gave way and he knelt in exhaustion, a sudden light tore across the sky. It was like a star falling, but brighter, nearer. The glow streaked downward, hissing as if splitting the heavens. Jing staggered to his feet, shielding his eyes. The light vanished behind the ridge, and the forest quivered as though struck by something immense.
Breathless, Jing whispered, "Heaven's omen…"
Without hesitation, he limped forward. Pain tore at his leg, but he forced himself on, stumbling over roots and stones. Something in him knew this was no ordinary falling star. Something called to him.
At last, he reached a clearing. There, half-buried in moss and dirt, lay a mirror.
It looked plain—round, framed in dull bronze, the surface smooth and clear. But as Jing bent and lifted it, he realized at once it was no common object. When his hands touched the rim, the mirror trembled with faint warmth.
He leaned forward, expecting to see his own weary face reflected. Instead—nothing. The surface showed emptiness, no image at all, as though the mirror rejected his existence.
Then a sudden shock coursed through him. The mirror's surface rippled like water, and Jing felt as if unseen eyes were crawling over his skin, piercing his flesh, burrowing into bone. His heart thudded in alarm. It was scanning him. Every weakness, every scar, every flaw—he felt them being laid bare. His weak leg convulsed as if responding to the probing light.
He gasped, trying to pull away, but his fingers could not release the mirror. It held him fast.
Moments later, images began to appear within the glass. Not words, but paintings—detailed diagrams of the human body, flowing stances, movements traced in glowing lines. They shifted one after another, as though demonstrating a full sequence of training.
Jing stared, entranced. Each position was clear, precise, elegant—unlike the crude method his grandfather had forced upon him.
Hesitant, he imitated the first stance.
At once, something stirred. His breath deepened naturally, without strain. His spine straightened, his blood seemed to circulate with warmth. Most of all—his left leg, so long a torment, did not scream in pain. Instead, it felt supported, guided, as though the stance was crafted to heal rather than break.
His eyes widened. He shifted into the next posture, and the feeling strengthened. For the first time in his life, his weak leg carried him without collapse. Power—not great, but real—spread through his body.