The mountains loomed like jagged teeth on the horizon, black and ancient against the sky. Jie had never seen them this close before. From the valley below, they looked eternal, like they had been standing before the first emperor, before the first village, before the first fight.
The whispers in the markets and inns had all pointed here. Stories of monks who trained in silence, men who could split stone with their hands, leap as though they had wings, and stop a raging bull with a single strike. Some said they were untouchable, others that they would never allow outsiders within their walls. But to Jie, the whispers were not warnings. They were invitations.
He set out with little more than his fists and his stubborn will. The path was brutal. Roots clawed at his feet, the thin mountain air cut at his lungs, and the rocks were slick with mist. But Jie was not like other children his age. His body was harder, stronger, sharper. Each step that would have broken another boy's legs only deepened his resolve.
Three days into his climb, hunger gnawed at his stomach like a wild animal. He had eaten roots, leaves, and the occasional rabbit he managed to snatch, tearing into it raw and bloody with his teeth. He looked like what the whispers already called him — a beast. Gray eyes, wild hair, lean muscles hardened by survival.
By the time Jie stumbled onto the plateau, his breath was ragged, his chest caked with dirt and dried blood. Before him stood a sprawling temple carved into the mountainside, ancient stone statues of warrior monks lining the steps. The air was silent, heavy, like the mountain itself was holding its breath.
A figure appeared at the top of the steps.
An old monk, head shaved, robes simple, posture unbending. His eyes flicked over Jie like he was measuring more than just his body — as if he were weighing his soul.
"You should not be here," the monk said, his voice low, steady as a stone.
Jie took a step forward, his fists clenched. "I came to fight."
The monk did not flinch. "Fight?"
"To learn. To fight. To grow stronger," Jie growled, his voice hoarse from the climb. "The world says you're strong. Stronger than the men in the towns. Stronger than the masters I faced. If that's true, then show me. Make me stronger."
The monk's eyes lingered on him, not with fear or even disdain, but with something colder. "Strength without balance is destruction. You are not ready."
Jie's gray eyes burned. "Then test me."
The silence stretched. Then, almost imperceptibly, the monk nodded. His hand rose, palm open, a gesture as soft as it was terrifying.
The first strike came so fast Jie barely saw it. The monk's palm slammed into his chest, not shattering ribs the way Wei Shen had, but sending Jie skidding back across the stone like a ragdoll. His body rolled, scraping skin raw. He spat blood, but his lips twisted into a grin.
He had expected as much.
Jie lunged again, fists swinging with the feral rhythm he had forged in alleys and arenas. He threw hooks, hammers, bone-breaking strikes meant to crush and overwhelm. The monk slid aside, each step graceful, each counter sharper than a blade. He struck Jie's arm, numbing it instantly, struck his leg, buckling it beneath him, struck his neck, leaving him gasping.
But Jie didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Every blow he took, he twisted into fuel. His eyes never wavered, always sizing, always devouring, always learning. His brute fists tore through the air again and again until, at last, one landed.
A single strike. His knuckles cracked against the monk's ribs. The old man staggered, just half a step, but it was enough.
Jie grinned, blood dripping down his chin. "See? I can fight."
The monk studied him, rubbing his side with a faint wince. Then, instead of anger, he smiled — a small, knowing smile.
"You fight like a storm. Wild. Unrestrained. Destructive." The monk's gaze sharpened. "But a storm can be guided. Come inside, beast-child. If you wish to learn, then you will learn. But know this: the path is not one of pride. It will break you if you are not more than hunger."
For the first time in his life, Jie felt something other than pure hunger for battle. He felt the faintest flicker of respect. He bowed — stiff, awkward, but genuine.
The temple doors opened, and shadows swallowed him whole.
The days that followed were unlike anything Jie had known. The monks did not fight him the way others had. They did not indulge his wild fists or answer his growls with blood. Instead, they broke him down piece by piece.
He carried buckets of water up endless stairs, the weight straining even his monstrous body. He stood in frozen streams until his legs went numb, forced to hold stances until his muscles screamed. He meditated until he thought his mind would tear itself apart from the stillness.
And yet, whenever he failed, whenever his knees buckled or his buckets spilled, the monks struck him down with precision. No hesitation, no cruelty — only the demand that he rise again.
Jie hated it. He craved the violence, the clash of fists and blood. But somewhere deep inside, he began to see the shape of something more. His brute force did not vanish — it sharpened. His strikes grew heavier, more efficient. His instincts absorbed techniques, but twisted them, bent them to his will. He was not becoming a monk. He was becoming something else.
The whispers followed even here. When merchants passed through the mountains, they saw him training, saw the gray-eyed boy carrying stones, bleeding on temple steps, sparring against men twice his age. By the time they descended, their tongues were already aflame with tales.
"The beast-child learns from the monks now."
"No, no — the monks are trying to cage him."
"Cage him? Hah! You can't cage thunder."
The stories only spread further, shaping him into a legend long before his body reached its prime.
But Jie didn't care about whispers anymore.
He cared about fists.
He cared about strength.
He cared about the storm growing inside his veins.
And in the shadows of the mountain temple, the beast began to take form.