The smoke of war had not left Changshan, but the seasons turned, and with them, the rhythm of survival changed. Spring came late that year, the river running high with melted snow. In the quiet after raids and hunger, the villagers tried to return to life. Fields were replanted, roofs repaired, children once again chased one another along the dusty paths. Yet for Zhao Zilong, peace never felt whole. The image of Old Tian's fall, the cries of the raiders, the taste of ash in his throat they clung to him like shadows.
One afternoon, he wandered by the ruins of the blacksmith's forge. The anvil was cracked, the tools scattered, but among the ashes lay a single iron rod, half forged, unfinished. He picked it up, feeling the weight in his small hands. It was heavy, too heavy for his arms, but in its balance there was a strange comfort. He swung it once, twice, his movements clumsy yet filled with determination. A voice startled him.
"You hold it like firewood," an elder chuckled. Old Yuan leaned on his staff, his one good eye watching the boy. "A weapon is not a stick, child. It must be an extension of you."
Zilong lowered the rod, embarrassed. "I want to learn," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I want to be strong enough to protect the village."
The old man studied him, then shook his head. "Strength is not enough. A wild bull is strong, but even a child can lead it with a rope. What you need is discipline." He tapped the staff against the ground. "Come to the riverbank at dawn. If your heart is true, we will see what you are made of."
That night, Zilong barely slept. The thought of real training filled him with fire. He dreamed of spears flashing, of himself standing tall against armored soldiers. When the first light touched the sky, he was already at the river, the iron rod strapped to his back with a strip of cloth.
Old Yuan was waiting. He carried no weapon but his staff, worn smooth by years of use. "First lesson," he said as Zilong approached, breathless from excitement. "Patience. You arrived before me, but training begins only when I say it does." He sat on a rock and gestured to the boy. "Wait."
Hours passed. The sun rose higher, burning against the back of Zilong's neck. He shifted from foot to foot, hands itching to move, but the old man simply sat, humming to himself. At last, when the boy could no longer stand still, Yuan rose. "Good. Your legs shake, your mind burns, but you endured. That is the root of the spear."
He motioned for Zilong to take his rod. "Show me how you strike."
Zilong planted his feet and jabbed forward, mimicking what he had done with branches. The rod wobbled in his grip, his stance too narrow. Yuan's staff flicked like a snake, knocking the rod aside with ease. The boy stumbled, nearly falling. Again and again he tried, but each thrust ended with the staff tapping his arms, shoulders, or legs.
"You are fighting with anger," Yuan scolded. "Anger is quick, but it is blind. You must let your body breathe with the weapon, not against it."
"I can do it!" Zilong cried, gripping the rod until his knuckles whitened. Sweat poured down his face, his arms aching, yet he refused to stop. He lunged again, and again the staff swept him aside. His knees struck the dirt, but he pushed himself up, chest heaving.
The old man watched quietly. At last he nodded. "Enough for today. Tomorrow, you return."
Zilong staggered home, body bruised and weary. His mother met him at the door, eyes widening at his dirt streaked clothes. "What happened?"
"Training," he whispered, and though his body screamed in pain, his eyes burned with light. "I will not stop."
The days stretched into weeks. At dawn he stood at the river, repeating stances until his legs trembled. Yuan drilled him endlessly holding a stance until his body ached, thrusting until his arms grew numb, blocking strikes that came faster than his eyes could follow. When he failed, he rose again. When he succeeded, there was no praise only the next challenge.
One morning, Yuan set a clay pot on a post. "Strike it," he ordered. Zilong lunged, the rod clattering against the clay but not breaking it. Again and again he struck, sweat flying, breath ragged, until at last the pot cracked. His arms shook so badly he nearly dropped the weapon, but a smile broke across his face.
"Do not smile yet," Yuan said sharply. "That pot did not fight back. Remember this a blade does not care for your pride. Neither will your enemy."
In the evenings, Zilong sat by the river, staring at his reflection. His body grew leaner, his strikes sharper, but doubt gnawed at him. Could he ever be strong enough? He remembered the bandits' laughter, the ease with which they cut down men twice his size. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.
One night, his mother found him there. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Zilong," she whispered, "do not lose yourself in shadows. Your father dreamed of a dragon not because it crushed the world, but because it protected it. Strength must serve life, not destroy it."
He looked up at her, the words etching deep into his heart. "Then I will be the dragon," he said, his voice soft but unshakable. "I will protect."
The next day, Yuan placed something new in his hands a spear. It was crude, a wooden shaft tipped with iron, heavier than anything he had lifted before. His breath caught as he held it, the weight pulling at his arms, yet his heart soared. This was no toy, no branch, no rod. This was a weapon of warriors.
"Your true training begins now," Yuan said.
Zilong's hands tightened on the shaft. The river whispered beside him, the wind stirring the grass. In that moment, he felt something awaken within him, as though the spirit of the dragon stirred in his blood.
Morning mist clung to the riverbank as Zilong lifted the spear for the first time. Its weight was foreign, its balance strange, yet in his grasp it felt alive, as if the metal tip pulsed faintly with its own will. Old Yuan circled him with the patience of a hawk, eyes sharp despite his age.
"Hold it steady," Yuan instructed. "A spear is not swung wildly like a stick. It is guided, straight as the dragon's breath."
Zilong tightened his grip and thrust forward. The spear wavered, veering off target, and Yuan's staff snapped against it with a sharp crack. Pain shot through his arms, but he steadied his stance and tried again. Sweat trickled down his brow, his muscles straining as the old man corrected each mistake with strikes that stung but did not wound.
"Again," Yuan demanded.
Hours stretched into endless repetition. Thrust, block, sweep, retreat. Zilong's body ached, his palms blistered, but his spirit refused to bend. Each failure burned, yet within the pain lived a fire that pushed him onward. When at last Yuan called an end, the boy collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving, but his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
"You will return tomorrow," Yuan said, planting his staff into the ground. "And the day after. Until this spear no longer feels like iron in your hands but like your own heartbeat."
Days bled into weeks. The spear grew less foreign. Each dawn found Zilong on the riverbank, his breath steaming in the cold, his feet tracing the stances Yuan drilled into him. His strikes cut cleaner, his blocks held firmer. Villagers sometimes gathered at a distance, whispering among themselves as they watched the boy move with growing grace. Some shook their heads at the harshness of his training, others murmured of omens, of dragons coiling in human form.
One afternoon, Yuan tested him with a challenge. Two poles were set into the ground, each with a jar balanced atop. "Strike swiftly," Yuan commanded, "and let neither jar fall."
Zilong inhaled, steadying his mind. His body remembered the rhythm drilled into it. The spear shot forward like lightning, the tip tapping one jar before sweeping to the other. Both wobbled dangerously but did not fall. A grin spread across his face, but Yuan's sharp voice cut it short.
"Do not celebrate balance that was nearly lost. Strike again until you can leave no doubt."
Frustration gnawed at Zilong, yet he obeyed. Again and again, his spear flashed until the jars stood unshaken. His arms quivered with exhaustion, but pride glimmered quietly within him.
By the time summer ripened the fields, Zilong's training bore fruit. His body, once thin, grew lean and firm, his movements sharper than boys twice his age. Still, Yuan reminded him often, "Strength is not mastery. A spear without wisdom is a storm without direction."
One evening, raindrops pattered against the roof of their hut. Zilong sat sharpening the spearhead, his mother watching from across the fire. Her eyes softened, though her voice carried weight. "You have grown quickly, my son. But I fear what this path demands of you."
He lifted his gaze, firelight dancing across his young features. "I cannot turn away, Mother. I must be ready when danger comes again."
She reached across and touched his hand, calloused from countless hours of training. "Then promise me this let your heart stay kind, even as your arm grows strong. A blade can protect, but it can also destroy. Remember always which one you were born to be."
Her words carved deeper than any lesson Yuan had given. That night, sleep came with visions himself standing on battlefields, spear in hand, storms raging overhead. Yet in every vision, he stood not alone but as a shield before his people.
Autumn arrived, and with it, whispers of raiders returning. Fear spread through the village once more. Farmers hid grain, women kept knives close, and children were taught where to run if danger struck. Amid this fear, Zilong stood taller, his spear never far from reach.
One dusk, while shadows stretched long, Yuan brought him to the edge of the woods. "Your training must now face breath of danger," he said. "Strike that which moves, not what stands still." He released a tethered goat, which bounded nervously across the clearing. "Hurt it not, but touch it with your spear."
Zilong blinked in surprise. "A goat?"
"An enemy is not always armed. Sometimes it is swift, sometimes it flees. Learn to follow, to guide, not just to strike."
The boy pursued the goat, stumbling through grass and roots, thrusting again and again yet missing. Frustration rose, but Yuan's sharp call anchored him. "Patience! Watch its steps, not its horns!"
Hours passed before his spear finally touched the animal lightly, sending it bounding away unharmed. Zilong dropped to his knees, breath ragged, but a fierce smile spread across his face. For the first time, he had moved not against but with his target, anticipation flowing through his limbs.
By winter's first frost, he had become more than a boy with a stick. His stance carried weight, his strikes precision, his eyes focus. Still young, yet within him stirred the promise of a warrior. Villagers spoke of his dedication, some calling it madness, others destiny. Zilong himself cared little for their whispers. Each dawn he rose, each dusk he fell asleep aching, his spirit sharpened alongside his spear.
One night, stars burned bright above the snow laden fields. Zilong stood alone outside, spear planted in the ground before him. He whispered into the cold air, a vow born of hardship and fire. "I will grow strong enough to protect them all. No blade shall strike my village while I still draw breath."
In that silence, the wind stirred as if the heavens themselves listened.