The night after the courtyard battle, Jie's body sang with pain. Every movement hurt—the ribs that Wei Shen had struck, the bruises along his arms, the stiff ache in his legs from being swept. He had known pain before, but this was different. This pain lingered like an echo, reminding him with each breath that he had come closer to defeat than ever before.
He lay awake beneath the fractured roof of an abandoned shack, watching the moonlight spill through broken beams. His gray eyes stared at the light, unblinking. Sleep would not come. The fight replayed in his head—Wei Shen's perfect stances, his flowing counters, the sharp snap of a palm strike. Jie remembered the shock when his ribs rattled, the taste of copper in his mouth.
For the first time, he thought: Strength is not enough.
That thought coiled in his chest like a second heartbeat, keeping him awake until dawn.
By morning, the rumors of the fight had spread like wildfire. The gray-eyed boy had clashed with the prodigy, and though Jie had won, the story was not one-sided. Some claimed Wei Shen had been the better fighter, others swore Jie's raw power had carried the day. Either way, people whispered of it in the streets, in the taverns, in the temples. Jie's name traveled farther than ever before.
Far enough to reach the ears of true martial masters.
It began when Jie felt watched. Days after the fight, as he prowled through markets and alleys looking for his next challenge, he felt eyes on him. At first, he dismissed it as paranoia. But then he noticed—a figure leaning against a wall, another lingering on a rooftop, a man pretending to examine fruit at a stall while his gaze never left Jie.
They didn't look like thugs or street fighters. Their bearing was different. Upright, calm, heavy with a presence that pressed against Jie's instincts. Predators, but not the kind Jie was used to. These were predators who did not need to bare their teeth.
One night, they revealed themselves.
Jie was crossing a quiet courtyard, the moon high and full above him, when a voice spoke from the shadows.
"You are Jie, the gray-eyed boy."
Jie turned, fists already tightening. A tall man stepped forward, robes of faded blue whispering with each movement. His hair was white, though his face was unlined, his eyes sharp as blades. Behind him, two others emerged—one a stocky man with arms like stone pillars, the other lean and wiry, moving like a serpent.
Jie's body stiffened. His instincts screamed danger, a danger unlike any he had faced.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The white-haired man bowed slightly. "Travelers. Listeners of whispers. Seekers of strength. We came to see if the stories were true."
The stocky man grinned, showing teeth. "The brat who broke Wei Shen. The beast with the steel eyes."
"I'm no beast," Jie growled.
The wiry man tilted his head, his smile thin. "No? Then show us."
The words were not a request.
The three masters moved as one, surrounding Jie. Their presence closed in like a cage. Jie's heartbeat thundered, not with fear, but with something sharper—excitement. These men were not like Wei Shen. They were stronger, older, steeped in power that pressed down on him like a mountain.
The fight exploded.
The stocky man charged first, his fists slamming down like hammers. Jie ducked beneath the first, rolled away from the second, and countered with a strike that would have shattered bone. His fist met the man's forearm—and stopped. The arm did not break. Instead, pain shot through Jie's hand.
The man laughed. "Not bad. But not enough." His counterpunch sent Jie sprawling across the courtyard stones.
Before he could rise, the wiry man was on him, his movements fluid and serpentine. His strikes lashed like whips, each one precise, aimed at joints, at nerves. Jie twisted, blocked, but the blows slipped through, snapping against his skin, numbing his arms.
Then the white-haired man's shadow fell across him. Jie barely had time to brace before a palm strike sank into his chest. The impact drove the air from his lungs, lifted him from the ground, and flung him back. He slammed against a pillar, vision blurring.
The three masters stopped. They did not press the attack. They simply stood, watching.
Jie staggered to his feet, coughing blood, his gray eyes blazing. His body screamed to collapse, but the hunger in him would not allow it. He took a step forward, then another, fists trembling but raised.
The white-haired man's expression shifted—approval, faint but real.
"You are raw," he said. "Untamed. Dangerous. But there is iron in your spirit."
The wiry man chuckled. "He would die in a week without guidance."
The stocky man shrugged. "Or he would kill half the city before then."
The white-haired man turned back to Jie. "Listen well, boy. Power without form is like a storm—it destroys everything, even itself. If you wish to survive, you must learn. Seek the ones who can shape that storm. Seek the Ryozanpaku."
The name struck Jie like a thunderclap, though he did not yet understand why.
The three masters turned and vanished into the night, moving with speed and silence that defied Jie's senses. In moments, the courtyard was empty again, save for the boy standing battered and bleeding beneath the moon.
Jie sank to his knees, chest heaving, pain radiating through every limb. But his eyes—those gray, unyielding eyes—burned brighter than ever.
For the first time, he had faced men so far beyond him that victory had been impossible. And instead of despair, he felt only hunger.
The path before him had changed. No longer was he satisfied with breaking thugs and brawlers. No longer was he content with whispers in villages and towns. He wanted more.
He wanted to stand where those men stood.
He wanted to face the masters.
And he would.
Even if he had to tear the world apart to get there.