The monks' courtyard was silent except for the steady rhythm of fists against wood. Jie's knuckles had grown calloused to the point where even splinters could not break them, but he still struck, over and over, until the air quivered with each impact. Sweat streamed down his body, dripping into the dirt. His hair clung to his face, black strands matted with dust.
He had been training at the temple for nearly two years now. The boy who had first climbed the mountain — half-starved, wild-eyed, fists swinging blindly — was gone. In his place stood something larger, sharper. His frame had lengthened, muscles carved like stone, movements no longer clumsy but measured. And yet, the hunger in his gray eyes remained.
The monks had taught him control, but they had not changed his nature. He still wanted to fight. He still wanted to taste strength.
And word had begun to spread.
When merchants climbed the mountain paths, they spoke in hushed voices of a boy whose fists could dent stone pillars. When wandering fighters stopped to test him, they left with shattered ribs, bloodied jaws, and bruised pride. Some called him Thunder Beast, others Gray-Eyed Demon. By the time they returned to the lowlands, his name had already grown into a storm.
Zhang Jie.
That afternoon, a caravan arrived. Not traders, not pilgrims — but fighters.
Jie knew it as soon as he saw them. Their posture. The way their eyes flicked over the monks, over him. They carried no goods, only scars and steel.
The leader was a tall man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his collarbone. He wore no robe, only a sleeveless vest that revealed corded arms, and his chest bore tattoos of coiled serpents. His voice rumbled like gravel when he spoke.
"We came from Guangzhou. We heard the monks were hiding a beast in their walls." His eyes landed on Jie. "Guess the rumors were true."
Jie wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped forward. "If you came to talk, leave. If you came to fight, stay."
The scarred man grinned. "Straight to the point. I like that."
He gestured to his men — five fighters, each hard-eyed, seasoned. They spread out around the courtyard. The monks did not move to intervene. They rarely did.
Jie cracked his neck, his bare feet sinking into the dirt. The storm inside him stirred.
The first to move was a stocky fighter with shoulders like a bull. He charged, fists pumping like pistons. Jie met him head-on, their collision echoing like thunder. The man's fist slammed into Jie's cheek — hard enough to make sparks flash in his vision — but Jie didn't fall. He grinned through the pain and drove his own fist into the man's stomach.
The sound was wet, crushing. The man's eyes bulged. He staggered back, vomiting blood onto the dirt.
The second fighter leapt in with a spinning kick aimed at Jie's temple. For a heartbeat, Jie almost admired the technique — then he ducked, snatched the man's ankle mid-spin, and slammed him into the ground like a sack of rice. Bones cracked.
The courtyard roared with movement as the others piled in. Jie's world became fists, knees, and fury. He didn't block every strike — blows landed on his ribs, his jaw, his back — but none of them stopped him. His brute force style tore through precision, his instincts devoured technique.
One fighter tried to choke him with an arm around his throat. Jie bit down on the man's forearm, tearing flesh, and hurled him over his shoulder. Another slashed with a short blade, but Jie caught his wrist, twisted, and shattered it against his knee. The knife clattered to the dirt.
By the time the dust settled, five men lay broken, groaning, spitting blood. Jie stood over them, chest heaving, lips curled into a smile. His own face was bloodied, but his gray eyes burned brighter than ever.
The scarred leader had not moved. He watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're strong," he said finally. "But strength doesn't make you the only monster in this world."
Jie tilted his head. "Then who?"
The man's grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "Across the sea. Japan. They whisper of a boy there. A boy who kills tigers with his bare hands. Who tears men apart for sport. They call him Hanma Yuujirou."
The name was foreign, heavy on Jie's ears. But it ignited something in his chest.
Yuujirou.
"Stronger than me?" Jie asked, voice low.
The scarred man laughed. "I've never seen him. But the stories… they say he's a demon. Like you."
The courtyard went still. The monks, who rarely showed interest in worldly matters, shifted faintly at the name. Jie noticed. His eyes narrowed.
"So there's another," Jie muttered.
The scarred man leaned closer, voice dropping to a rasp. "Maybe stronger. Maybe not. But the world won't be big enough for both of you."
With that, he turned, signaling his broken men to drag themselves away. They limped out of the courtyard, leaving silence in their wake.
Jie stood there, fists still clenched, his chest rising and falling.
Hanma Yuujirou.
The words rolled through his mind like thunder. For the first time since his rebirth, he felt the spark of something new — not just hunger, not just instinct, but rivalry. Somewhere out there, another beast was roaming the earth, claiming strength, claiming blood, claiming the title that Jie believed was his.
He spat into the dirt, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Japan, huh?" he whispered.
The monks said nothing. They knew better. They could see it in his eyes — the storm that had found its counterpart.
That night, Jie sat alone at the edge of the temple, staring at the horizon. The wind howled through the mountains, cold and sharp. He closed his eyes and pictured him.
A boy with the same hunger. The same bloodlust. The same unshakable body.
Hanma Yuujirou.
For the first time, Jie's heart raced not just with desire to fight, but with anticipation.
The world had just gotten smaller.
And the path ahead had just become clearer.
Two storms were gathering, destined to collide.
The only question was who would be left standing.