The wind off the Yunlong Mountains was colder than steel, and it carried with it the cries of wild geese and the faint ringing of temple bells from faraway monasteries. To walk those roads was to walk the veins of the world itself: paths that ran like arteries between valleys, through pine forests where the earth breathed in fog, out again onto ridges where the horizon was a blade of light against the sky. On such a road strode nine figures.
They came not as a troop, nor as merchants, nor as wandering priests. They moved in silence mostly, and when they spoke, it was with the weariness of men who had walked many days without promise of rest. Yet there was something unmistakable in their bearing a rhythm, a presence, a weight in the air that told even the wild creatures to step aside.
The eldest walked at the front. Li Heng was his name, though the villagers who had seen him called him the Iron Vow. His back was straight as the pine trunks, his guandao strapped across his broad shoulders, and the scar that crossed his cheek was pale against his weathered skin. When he looked, men felt weighed and judged, as though the mountain itself had turned its gaze upon them.
Behind him padded a monk in frayed robes the color of dust. Xuan Mo, once a disciple of the Great Mercy Temple, exiled for striking a superior in defense of starving villagers. His prayer beads clinked softly as he walked, and his staff tapped against the stones with the patience of flowing water. His face was still, yet his eyes saw everything.
To their side strode Feng Wuyue, the Wanderer. His hair was windblown, his robe loose, and his wine gourd never still. He hummed half songs, grinned at nothing, and yet his sword at his hip gleamed sharp enough to slice starlight. It was said his steps were never sober, but his blade never missed.
A hunter followed, lean and dark from the sun, bow across his back, twin sabers at his waist. Han Lei had the gaze of a hawk, forever scanning the ridges. He had been raised in forests where men lived closer to wolves than to one another, and his silence was not shyness but listening to the wind, to the grass, to the breath of prey or enemy alike.
Close by walked Wen Zhi, the Scholar, whose long sleeves flared with every step. His hands were delicate, but between his fingers flashed slivers of steel needles tipped in poisons only he understood. His eyes were always distant, not from dream but from calculation, turning every rock and branch into a diagram of possibilities.
The sixth among them was Bai Ruoling, the Gentle Blade, whose face was like that of a musician from court, refined and smooth, yet whose folding fans concealed edges sharper than daggers. He moved as though the road itself were a stage, gestures flowing like a dancer's, calm even in danger.
Beside him towered Gao Zhen, the Blacksmith. He carried a hammer as if it were nothing, though most men would struggle to lift it. His hands were scarred from years at the forge, his voice low and gravelly, yet when he laughed it rumbled like earth splitting.
The eighth was Zhou Ke, the Trickster, all quick eyes and quicker fingers, rope dart coiled at his side like a serpent waiting to strike. He had the air of a man always about to vanish or steal your purse. His jokes came as easily as his feints, but behind them lay a hunger to prove himself.
And last, so quiet that many forgot him until they looked twice, was Luo Yan, the Silent Shadow. His clothes were the color of smoke, his movements the suggestion of absence. Twin daggers glimmered faintly in his sleeves, and his eyes were sharp enough to cut without steel. He seldom spoke, but when he did, men listened.
Nine brothers. Not born of the same womb, not joined by clan, but bound by an oath spoken beneath the stars one year past: that they would walk together against the darkness rising in the land, that no blade nor poison nor treachery of this world would break their brotherhood until Heaven itself called their names.
It was early spring when their road brought them to the Valley of Ash Plum. From afar they saw smoke, a thread of black rising against the pale sky. Han Lei's eyes narrowed, and he said quietly, "Smoke like that does not come from hearths."
Li Heng did not pause his stride. "Then wolves are near."
The Wanderer sighed and tilted his wine gourd. "Again wolves. Always wolves. Can Heaven not send us one valley with maidens and music instead?"
"Your music comes only from clashing swords, Brother," Bai Ruoling said, half smiling.
"Then let it play," Gao Zhen rumbled.
When they reached the village, the air was sour with burning thatch. Homes had been split open, livestock slain where they stood, and the cries of women and children carried between the houses. Dozens of raiders in patched armor prowled the streets, their banners showing no lord's sigil, only the crude mark of a wolf's jaw.
Li Heng's scar deepened as his jaw set. "Bandits feeding on border folk. Drive them out."
The brothers moved without further words.
Han Lei's bow sang first. An arrow hissed through the smoke and struck a raider in the throat. He fell with no more sound than a rabbit snared.
Xuan Mo's staff swept low, knocking aside three men before they understood a monk had entered their midst. His voice was calm as he struck. "Compassion does not spare evil."
Feng Wuyue weaved through the fray, staggering as though drunk, yet each swing of his sword carved open a gap, cutting belt straps, disarming men before they realized their weapons were gone. His laughter rang louder than their curses.
The blacksmith charged like a bull, his hammer a thunderclap that shattered shields and bone together.
Wen Zhi stayed at the fringe, his eyes following patterns. A flick of his wrist sent two needles into a man's neck; another gesture loosed a powder that turned eyes blind.
Bai Ruoling spun his fans, silver edges scattering sparks of light. Raiders staggered back, faces streaked with blood that looked like the falling of petals.
Zhou Ke vaulted onto a rooftop, rope dart whipping out to coil a raider's arm, yanking him screaming into the dirt. "Did I not warn you," he called, grinning, "never to play with string unless you are a cat?"
And among the chaos, unseen until his blades flashed, Luo Yan slipped through like a ghost. Men fell clutching their throats, staring in horror at a shadow that had already passed them by.
Last to move was Li Heng, but when he did, his guandao swept through the smoke like a mountain wind. One arc of the blade scattered five men at once; another broke a spear as easily as snapping kindling. His voice thundered across the village. "This ground is not yours! Leave it or be buried in it!"
Panic spread through the bandits. Their laughter turned to shrieks, their plunder dropped from nerveless hands. Some fled to the hills; others died on the road they had desecrated.
When the last clatter of steel fell silent, the villagers emerged wide-eyed, trembling, some falling to their knees in thanks. A grey-bearded elder clasped Li Heng's hand with both of his. "Heaven has sent us guardians. We would have been ashes by nightfall."
Li Heng shook his head. "No. We are not guardians. We are only men who will not walk past suffering."
But the elder bowed lower. "Then may Heaven remember your names, even if men forget."
The brothers stayed until nightfall, helping to douse fires and mend what roofs they could. The villagers pressed bowls of rice wine into their hands, humble offerings, but to refuse would have been to wound hospitality, so they drank.
Later, when the fire was low and the villagers slept, the brothers gathered at the edge of the fields. The stars were bright above the mountains, scattered like silver dust across black silk.
Wen Zhi sipped from his cup, eyes fixed upward. "Nine men, nine paths, yet we walk together. Do you not feel it? As though threads unseen draw us toward some loom of Heaven."
Feng Wuyue laughed and sprawled in the grass. "Threads, looms, destiny! Always you speak like a dusty scroll. We are swordsmen, not scholars of the stars."
But Xuan Mo's eyes were troubled. "In my meditations I have seen this: ten stars gathered beneath a dragon's eye, burning brighter than Heaven itself. And among them, a flame that sears even the gods."
Li Heng looked into the fire. His face was unreadable, but his scar deepened as though remembering. "Then we must be ready. If Heaven shapes us for a battle yet to come, we will meet it. Until then, we walk. Together."
The brothers raised their cups. Nine voices spoke as one, echoing into the mountain night:
"Under Heaven, by this oath, we are brothers. Until death, until destiny."
Far away, in another valley, a woman labored through the night. Storm clouds gathered though no rain fell, thunder rolled though no lightning flashed. And as the brothers' oath echoed into Heaven, the child drew his first cry. His wail pierced the storm like a blade through silk. Upon his small shoulder, faint as breath, was the mark of a dragon wreathed in fire.
The morning after their oath beneath the stars, the Nine Brothers took their leave of the Valley of Ash Plum. Villagers pressed dried meat, bundles of millet, and gourds of water into their hands, bowing until the brothers vanished up the road. Children chased after them for a while, shouting thanks, before their small voices faded into the hush of the pines.
The road wound upward into steeper country. Peaks jutted like black teeth, snow still clinging to their crowns though spring had touched the lowlands. Cold wind whipped through the passes, scattering needles from ancient pines and carrying with it the thin cry of hawks.
Han Lei walked ahead this time, eyes scanning the slopes. "Tracks," he murmured. "Not wolves. Heavier. Men two dozen, at least."
"Soldiers?" Zhou Ke asked, flicking his rope dart in lazy circles.
Han shook his head. "Too scattered for soldiers. Too many for travelers. They move like hunters… but not after game."
Li Heng's brow furrowed. "Then they hunt men."
They pressed on warily. By midday, the signs became clear: broken branches, trampled undergrowth, even a bloodied strip of cloth snagged on a thorn. At last, they reached a clearing where the earth was churned with hooves and the remnants of a caravan lay scattered. Crates split open, silks torn, wagon wheels shattered. Among the wreckage lay bodies merchants, guards, even a boy no older than twelve, his small hand still clutching a flute.
Feng Wuyue's smile faded. He knelt and poured a drop of wine onto the soil. "Heaven takes too much from the innocent," he muttered.
Xuan Mo clasped his beads. "This is no simple banditry. Look." He pointed to the marks carved into one of the crates: a lotus blossom, its petals painted crimson.
Even Wen Zhi's calm eyes darkened. "The Crimson Lotus Sect."
The name carried weight among them all. Whispers told of the sect's cruelty, of their rites in blood, of their quest to unearth the tomb of Emperor Yunlong, whose death centuries past had not quenched his thirst for dominion. Some called the Lotus a cult, others a brotherhood of assassins. All agreed their shadow stretched wider each year.
Li Heng's scar pulled as he set his jaw. "If their hand reaches here, then this land is already poisoned. Brothers, we cannot walk past this trail."
And so they followed.
For three days they tracked the raiders through the mountains. By day, Han Lei read the earth as if it were parchment. By night, Wen Zhi spread out crude maps, calculating where the raiders might camp, how far a caravan's plunder could be carried before being traded. Each brother lent his skill: Gao Zhen cut paths through stone with his hammer; Luo Yan scouted ahead unseen; Zhou Ke wove snares across possible retreats.
On the fourth night, under a crooked moon, they found the raiders' lair: a ruined watchtower, its stones blackened by fire, now serving as both den and shrine. Dozens of men huddled there, banners of the Crimson Lotus snapping in the cold wind. At the tower's heart burned a brazier where blood dripped steadily from a chained prisoner into a bronze basin.
Xuan Mo's grip on his staff whitened. "A sacrifice."
The Scholar's voice was low. "Not merely cruelty. They seek to feed their rituals, to bind spirits of the dead."
"Then we will break their binding," Li Heng said.
They struck just before dawn, when men are heaviest with sleep. Luo Yan slipped into the shadows of the camp, severing throats before alarm could rise. Han Lei's arrows whispered death from the treeline. Gao Zhen hurled his hammer into the brazier, scattering coals across shrines and banners alike.
The raiders howled, scrambling for weapons. But the Nine Brothers fell upon them like a storm.
Feng Wuyue danced through the firelight, blade trailing sparks. Zhou Ke's rope dart sang, snapping wrists, dragging men screaming into the dirt. Bai Ruoling's fans flashed like falling stars, blinding, cutting, dazzling. Wen Zhi's powders turned air into poison, burning eyes, choking throats.
Xuan Mo fought like a tide, staff sweeping with relentless force, every strike a bell tolling doom. Li Heng's guandao cut through armor as if through reed, his voice ringing above the clash: "For the innocent! For the oath under Heaven!"
The battle was swift but fierce. When at last the raiders broke and fled, half their number lay dead. The prisoner a wandering scholar with frost in his beard wept as they freed him, bowing until his forehead bled. "You are not men," he whispered. "You are Heaven's answer."
But in the brazier, beneath the scattered coals, Wen Zhi found what chilled him more than the corpses: a scroll half-burnt, its ink still legible. It spoke of the Blood Seal of Yunlong an ancient mark said to bind dragon spirits to mortal flesh. The Crimson Lotus sought not only power, but rebirth.
"Ten vessels," Wen Zhi read aloud, voice taut. "One flame among them, a spark to ignite the Emperor's return."
The brothers stared at one another.
"Ten vessels," murmured Xuan Mo. "And we are nine."
The fire cracked, spitting sparks into the wind. No one spoke further that night.
Their journey continued. Weeks became months, the road carrying them from mountain ridges to river valleys, from villages clinging like moss to cliffs, to cities where towers glittered above filth choked alleys. Everywhere they went, whispers followed them: Nine wanderers who struck down bandits, who mended roofs, who broke corrupt lords' tax ledgers with hammer blows.
Children called them heroes. Officials called them outlaws. Priests called them omens.
And among themselves, the brothers laughed, quarreled, shared rice wine under stars, patched each other's wounds, and grew inseparable.
Yet always, in the silence between laughter, the words of the scroll lingered: Ten vessels. One flame.
Sometimes, when the fire burned low, Xuan Mo would fall into meditation, beads trembling in his fingers. Once, when Feng Wuyue nudged him awake, he murmured, "I see him. The tenth. A boy with fire in his breath. He stands at the world's edge, and when he cries, mountains bow."
Feng Wuyue sobered at last, his gourd hanging forgotten. "Then we must guard him, whoever he is. Or the Lotus will devour him before he learns his own name."
Li Heng said nothing, only gazed into the embers, the scar on his cheek white as bone.
By midsummer, their wandering brought them to the city of Luomen, a walled maze of red tiled roofs and crowded bazaars. The streets thrummed with hawkers' cries, the stink of fish, the clang of forges, the bright flutter of silk.
Here, the brothers hoped to rest, to mend boots and blades. But Luomen was no sanctuary. Its governor was a man of narrow eyes and grasping hands, who taxed grain until children starved, yet built gilded pavilions for his concubines.
The brothers had no wish to meddle until one evening they passed the central square and saw soldiers beating an old woman for begging.
Gao Zhen roared, charging forward, hammer knocking spears aside. Zhou Ke's rope dart tangled a whip midair. Bai Ruoling's fan slashed across the captain's cheek, sending him sprawling. Within moments, the square erupted, townsfolk rushing forward to shield the woman. Soldiers fled in confusion, muttering curses of "rebels" and "outlaws."
By dawn, the governor's edict spread: Nine wandering vagabonds were condemned as enemies of order, their capture worth a hundred taels of silver.
Hunted, the brothers hid in warehouses, temple ruins, beneath bridges where beggars whispered warnings. It was during those days of flight that they first heard it: a rumor carried by midwives, passed from market to market.
"A child was born in the southern valley, under a sky that thundered though no rain fell.""They say he bears a mark on his shoulder a dragon in fire.""Some call him cursed. Others call him Heaven's star."
The brothers exchanged glances when they heard. None spoke it aloud, but each thought the same: The tenth.
Li Heng tightened his grip on his guandao. "We will finish what is before us. Then we will see this child."
The governor's soldiers hounded them from Luomen's walls, spears glinting in torchlight, drums echoing like thunder through the streets. Yet the Nine Brothers slipped away, vanishing into alley shadows, melting into the noise of market crowds, crossing rooftops like cats in the rain.
For three nights they ran, pursued from village to village, until at last the road carried them to the southern lowlands where the great rivers braided through rice fields and mulberry groves. There, the air was heavy with summer rain, cicadas shrilling in the trees.
The people of these valleys whispered of the Nine as though of storm spirits some with awe, others with fear. Farmers left offerings at crossroads, little bundles of rice or incense, hoping to win the wanderers' blessing or ward off their wrath.
It was on such a road that Luo Yan, scouting ahead, halted suddenly. He raised one hand a silent signal. The others stilled, listening.
From the bend ahead came the sound of hooves. Not one or two, but many. The clatter grew louder, the air trembling with their weight.
"Ambush," Han Lei murmured. His fingers already brushed the feathers of his arrows.
Around the bend thundered thirty riders clad in black lacquered armor, their banners snapping with the sigil of a crimson lotus. They rode not like bandits but like soldiers, disciplined and grim. At their head was a man cloaked in scarlet, his helm shaped like a serpent, his eyes glinting with cold fire.
"The Lotus has learned our trail," Wen Zhi said under his breath.
Li Heng stepped forward, guandao leveled across his arm. His voice was iron. "Brothers, hold the line. If Heaven wills it, we will leave none to follow."
The clash came swift as storm.
Han Lei loosed his first arrow, piercing a rider's eye. Zhou Ke's rope dart coiled a horse's legs, toppling beast and man together. Gao Zhen swung his hammer in an arc that broke both shield and rider, scattering men like straw.
But these were no ordinary raiders. Their formation held, spears bristling, pressing forward in waves. The scarlet cloaked leader cut through with a curved saber, his strikes coiled like serpents.
Feng Wuyue staggered into the melee, laughing, sword flashing like lightning. "Come, brothers! Let us turn their petals to ashes!"
Xuan Mo's staff spun, breaking spear shafts, driving riders back with the inevitability of tide against rock. Bai Ruoling leapt among them, fans glittering with hidden steel, carving paths of blood and silk.
Even Wen Zhi, normally distant, fought at the edge, casting powders that ignited in smoke and flame, blinding the Lotus soldiers so shadows seemed to fight them from every side.
At last Li Heng met the scarlet cloaked leader. Their weapons rang, guandao and saber striking sparks into the rain. Blow for blow, neither gave quarter.
The man's voice hissed through his helm. "Nine wanderers. You should have bent knee to the Lotus. Together we could have unsealed the Emperor."
Li Heng's scar deepened as his teeth clenched. "We bow only to Heaven."
With a roar, he struck, guandao splitting helm and skull alike. The leader toppled from his horse, blood washing into the mud.
The remaining soldiers faltered, broke, and fled into the storm, their banners trampled into muck.
When silence returned, the brothers stood panting, bloodied, their blades dark with rain and death.
Feng Wuyue collapsed into the mud, gulping wine from his gourd. "Nine against thirty. A fair dance."
"Too fair," Wen Zhi said grimly, binding a cut on his arm. "The Lotus will not forgive this. We are marked now more than ever."
Li Heng looked over the battlefield. His gaze was distant, as though he listened to something no other could hear. Finally, he said, "Then we walk where Heaven points. The Lotus hunts us because they fear what has yet to come."
"And what is that?" Zhou Ke asked, tossing his rope dart aside to coil again.
Li Heng's eyes darkened. "The tenth."
Two valleys away, in a small hamlet by the River Yun, a woman's cries tore the night. Thunder rolled though the skies were clear. Dogs whimpered, oxen bellowed, and even the frogs in the paddies fell silent.
Inside a thatched house, by the glow of a single oil lamp, a midwife bent over the birthing bed. "Push, lady, push! Heaven waits!"
The woman's face was pale with sweat, her hands clenching the mat until her nails split. "The child… he burns me…"
The midwife gasped as the babe slipped into her arms, wailing with a voice that seemed far too strong for such small lungs. As she wrapped him in cloth, she froze. Upon the child's left shoulder glimmered a mark faint but clear the shape of a dragon encircled in flame.
The air in the room shifted. The lamp guttered though no wind blew. For an instant, the rafters shook as if a vast wing had passed above the roof.
The midwife fell to her knees, clutching the infant. "Heaven's star… the Flame of Yunlong reborn."
Outside, villagers gathered, whispering of omens. Some bowed, some crossed themselves in fear, others fled into the night.
Within the house, the child cried louder, fists clenched as though grasping at unseen destiny.
That same night, far away on the road, the Nine Brothers camped in the shelter of an old shrine. The fire crackled low, shadows dancing on weathered statues of forgotten gods.
Suddenly, Xuan Mo straightened, beads clattering in his hands. His eyes blazed as though lit from within.
"I feel it," he whispered. "The tenth star has fallen."
The others looked up sharply. Even Feng Wuyue held his gourd still.
"Where?" Li Heng asked.
The monk's gaze lifted to the southern sky. "Beyond these valleys, by the River Yun. He cries tonight, and Heaven shakes."
Silence fell among the brothers. The wind rattled the shrine's eaves.
At last, Li Heng rose, guandao gleaming in the firelight. "Then our road is set. We go to him. If the Lotus seeks this flame, they will find us before it. By our oath, we will guard him, even should Heaven demand our lives."
Nine voices rose as one, solemn and unyielding:
"By the oath under Heaven, we guard the flame."
Above them, the stars shimmered like a thousand watchful eyes.
And in the southern valley, the infant Chen Feng wailed again, his voice carrying into the night, as though answering their vow.