The valley of Yun was gentle compared to the mountains. Rivers wound lazily through green fields, where rice paddies mirrored the sky and mulberry trees swayed in summer winds. Farmers rose with the dawn, their voices carrying across the water, while children played along the dikes chasing dragonflies. It was a place where life clung stubbornly to peace, even as rumors of war and bandits drifted down from the north.
In a thatched house at the edge of the valley lived a boy called Chen Feng.
He was born on a night of thunder without rain, when the Nine Brothers spoke their oath beneath the stars. From his first cry, the villagers whispered that Heaven had marked him. They spoke of the flame shaped birthmark upon his left shoulder, the way he wailed as though defying the skies themselves, the way animals shied or knelt when brought near him. Some called him blessed, others cursed. But all knew he was not a child like others.
His mother, Lady Chen, was a widow whose husband had died in the fields three winters before. She raised him alone, with the help of neighbors, teaching him to bow at the ancestral shrine, to sweep the threshold before sunrise, to offer rice to passing monks. Yet even she sometimes trembled when the boy's laughter seemed to shake the oil lamps, or when his temper flared and the hearth fire leapt higher than its wood could justify.
By the time he was five, Chen Feng was already restless. He raced along the paddies faster than the other children, climbed trees as though his hands were claws, and often returned with scrapes and bruises that healed with uncanny speed. He argued with the elders, defied orders with a mischievous grin, and when punished, sulked only until some distraction pulled him into another game.
Yet for all his mischief, there was warmth in him a loyalty fierce even in one so young. When bullies struck a younger child, Chen Feng leapt into the fray, fists flying, tears streaming but never backing down. When a beggar passed through the village, he gave away his own steamed bun, ignoring his mother's sighs. And when festivals came, he danced with firecrackers in his hands, eyes alight as though born for flames.
Still, the whispers never ceased. "The Fire Child," they called him. "The Dragon's Flame." Old women muttered that Heaven would claim him young, or else the Crimson Lotus would find him. Farmers spat and turned their backs when he passed, fearing his presence might draw misfortune to their crops.
Lady Chen bore it in silence, though her heart ached. At night she held him close, murmuring, "You are my son, nothing more, nothing less. Let the world say what it will."
But Chen Feng listened. And in his small chest grew the seed of defiance, that one day he would prove them wrong.
When Chen Feng was seven, the valley changed.
It began with a rumor that soldiers of the Crimson Lotus had been seen near the border towns, black armored men demanding tribute in the name of the "Rising Emperor." Merchants whispered that villages burned if they refused, that children vanished, taken to serve in rituals no one dared describe.
One evening, as the sun sank red into the paddies, a wandering monk came to the Chen house. His robe was travel worn, his beads chipped, but his eyes were clear as mountain springs.
Lady Chen greeted him with courtesy, offering water and rice. The monk ate little, but as he rose to leave, his gaze lingered on Chen Feng, who was crouched outside drawing dragons in the dirt with a stick.
At last the monk said, "This child carries fire within him. Guard him well, lady, for flames draw moths as surely as they light the night."
Lady Chen paled. "What do you mean, Master?"
But the monk only bowed, murmuring, "Heaven moves. Men follow. Beware the Lotus," and departed into the dusk.
That night, Chen Feng dreamed of dragons. A vast shape coiled in the sky, its scales blazing like molten bronze, its eyes twin suns. It opened its mouth, and fire poured forth not to consume him, but to crown him. He awoke with sweat on his brow, his heart pounding like a drum.
When he told his mother, she hushed him, but her hands trembled.
By the time Chen Feng turned nine, the Crimson Lotus had drawn closer. Soldiers patrolled roads once safe. Travelers spoke of villages emptied overnight. Fear seeped into the valley like mist.
It was then that the Nine Brothers entered Yun.
They came as they always did weary travelers with weapons slung across their backs, eyes that carried storms, and an air that made even bold men step aside. The villagers gaped as they passed, whispering of rebels and heroes alike.
Chen Feng was playing near the shrine when he saw them. Nine men, each so different yet moving as one. The sight rooted him to the spot. His heart leapt, as though he had waited for this moment his whole life without knowing it.
The eldest, Li Heng, glanced at him only once, but that single look pierced deeper than any word. Feng Wuyue winked and tossed him a dried fruit. Zhou Ke flashed a grin before vanishing up a roofbeam to sprawl like a cat. Even the silent Luo Yan paused, eyes narrowing at the faint glimmer of the boy's birthmark visible where his collar slipped.
They did not speak to him then. But Chen Feng's chest burned as though he had swallowed the sun.
That night, he told his mother, "I will be like them. I will be stronger than anyone."
She held him close, tears hidden in his hair. "You are already more than enough, my child. But beware strength draws shadows as surely as it shines."
The days after the Nine Brothers' arrival were restless. Though they camped beyond the village, near the riverbank, their presence rippled like a stone dropped into still water. Children dared each other to sneak near their fire, while elders whispered warnings to keep distance. To the farmers of Yun, men who carried swords were never far from blood.
But to Chen Feng, they were heroes.
Each evening, when his mother thought him asleep, he crept from the thatched house and slunk toward the river. Hidden among reeds, he watched the Brothers at their camp. Their laughter rose with the crackle of flames, their voices weaving tales of battles fought in distant towns. Li Heng sharpened his blade by firelight, every stroke of the whetstone singing with iron resolve. Wu Zhen knelt in silent prayer, his breath misting in rhythm with the river. Feng Wuyue strummed a lute brought from who knew where, singing verses that made even the sternest Brothers smile.
Chen Feng's eyes shone like lanterns.
One night, unable to hold himself back, he stumbled from the reeds, a stick in hand as though it were a sword. "I'll fight too!" he cried.
The Brothers turned as one.
Li Heng's brow furrowed. "Boy, this is no place for children."
But Feng Wuyue only laughed, beckoning him closer. "Come then, little flame. Show us your sword."
Chen Feng leapt into the clearing, swinging his stick wildly. His face was fierce, his steps clumsy, yet there was something in the raw determination that made even Luo Yan's cold eyes soften for a heartbeat. He swung until he tripped over his own feet and landed flat on his back, panting.
The Brothers roared with laughter. Even Zhou Ke, who often mocked, clapped his hands.
"Brave heart," Wuyue said, helping him up. "But a sword is not for play. Do you know what it means to carry one?"
Chen Feng shook his head, cheeks flushed.
"It means to bleed," Wu Zhen said quietly, his voice deep as a temple bell. "To kill, to protect, to suffer. Are you ready for that?"
Chen Feng swallowed, but his chin rose. "Yes."
The Brothers exchanged glances. Some amused, some thoughtful. Only Li Heng's gaze remained stern. "Go home, boy. Do not trouble your mother."
But as Chen Feng trudged back into the dark, his fists clenched around the stick. In his heart, a vow burned. One day, he would stand among them, not as a child but as their equal.
The Nine Brothers stayed in Yun Valley longer than expected. Bandits had been raiding nearby villages, and though the governor's soldiers were said to protect the region, they were nowhere to be seen. The Brothers hunted the raiders, driving them from the hills, leaving the villagers in awe. For weeks, tales of their feats filled the air like festival songs.
Chen Feng followed whenever he could, watching from ridges, hiding in trees. Once, he saw Liu Jian split a bandit's spear with a single strike, the broken haft flying like straw in the wind. Another time, he watched Luo Yan vanish into shadows, reappearing behind a fleeing foe to strike with the edge of silence itself.
The boy trembled with awe. His dreams were filled with battles he had not fought, victories he had not earned.
But dreams can turn to nightmares.
It happened on a night when the moon was thin. A rider entered Yun, cloaked in red. His horse's hooves struck sparks on the stone bridge, and behind him came soldiers clad in black armor, their faces hidden behind masks carved like snarling beasts.
The villagers scattered in terror. Mothers clutched children. Men barred their doors.
The rider dismounted in the square. His voice was soft, but carried like a blade.
"People of Yun. The Crimson Lotus claims this valley. Offer your sons, your daughters, and half your harvest. Resist, and your fields will be ash."
No one moved. No one spoke.
It was Chen Feng foolish, fearless who shouted first.
"No! This is our home!"
Gasps tore from the crowd. Lady Chen rushed forward, seizing her son, her hands trembling with terror.
The rider's masked gaze turned toward the boy. "Ah," he murmured. "The flame-marked child. We have sought you."
Lady Chen's knees gave way. "Please he is only a boy!"
But the rider raised a hand. The soldiers advanced, iron boots striking in unison.
And then like thunder the Nine Brothers arrived.
Li Heng strode into the square, his blade drawn. Wu Zhen's beads glimmered as he chanted. Feng Wuyue twirled his lute, strings singing a single defiant note.
"The Crimson Lotus dares pollute this land?" Li Heng's voice rang like steel. "Not while we yet draw breath."
The soldiers roared and charged.
The square erupted into chaos.
Chen Feng clung to his mother, heart hammering, yet his eyes drank in every moment. He saw Liu Jian break a soldier's axe with bare hands. He saw Zhou Ke weave through foes like a shadow, daggers flashing. He saw Guo Tian unleash fists that fell like hammers, scattering men as wheat before a storm.
And he saw the rider calm amid the chaos, his blade a whisper of red light. Every Brother who struck at him was turned aside as though by fate itself.
At last, the rider's gaze fell once more upon Chen Feng. "The child is ours," he said, voice steady. "The Lotus will not be denied."
He advanced.
Before he could reach them, Lady Chen threw herself in front of her son. "You will not take him!"
The rider raised his hand but a flash of steel cut his path.
Li Heng stood firm, sword meeting sword, sparks flaring. "You will not touch him," he growled.
For a heartbeat, the two forces clashed discipline against fanatic will, light against shadow. The ground shuddered with their blows.
At last, the rider gave a sharp whistle. The black armored soldiers retreated, vanishing into the night like smoke.
But his parting words chilled the valley.
"The flame child is marked. We will return."
Silence followed. The villagers emerged slowly, faces pale, eyes filled with terror. Lady Chen gathered her son close, her tears wetting his hair.
Chen Feng did not cry. He could not. His heart blazed with something far fiercer than fear.
He had seen. He had felt. He knew, beyond doubt he could never remain a simple villager.
One day, he would wield a blade as the Brothers did. One day, he would face the Crimson Lotus not as a child, but as a warrior.
And though his mother's embrace trembled with dread, though the villagers muttered of doom, Chen Feng's eyes were already fixed on a path only fire could walk.
The night after the battle, Yun Valley did not sleep.
Fires still smoldered in the square where blades had clashed. Farmers whispered of omens, of Heaven's anger, of the Lotus returning with greater numbers. Mothers clutched their children, while men sharpened rusting spears, knowing they would be no match against black-armored killers.
At the edge of the village, Lady Chen sat alone in her small house. Her son slept beside her, finally exhausted after hours of restless pacing. She watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, one hand brushing the hair from his brow.
He had not wept. Not once. His eyes had burned, as if he had seen his future in the clash of blades. That frightened her more than anything.
She pressed her forehead against her knees, whispering prayers to ancestors she feared would not hear. "Spirits of my line, guard him. Please, do not let Heaven take him from me."
Beyond the fields, the Nine Brothers gathered by the riverbank. Their campfire cast their faces into shifting relief stern brows, tired eyes, scars that told stories of battles no songs remembered.
It was Li Heng who broke the silence. "The boy is marked."
None denied it.
Wu Zhen's beads clicked softly in his hand. "The flame is within him. His aura burns even in stillness. When the Lotus looked upon him, they saw what we saw."
Feng Wuyue leaned back, strumming a lazy chord on his lute. "So young, and already destiny coils around him like a dragon's tail. Poor child."
Zhou Ke spat into the fire. "Destiny or not, he's a burden. We're hunted enough as it is. Carrying a marked brat will only paint a bigger target on our backs."
Guo Tian's fist thudded against his palm. "We can protect him."
Luo Yan's voice was soft as mist, yet sharp as a blade. "Protection breeds dependence. Dependence breeds weakness. If he is destined, he must walk through fire alone."
Silence followed, heavy as an unstruck gong.
At last, Li Heng said, "We are not his guardians. We swore to uphold the oath to resist the Crimson Lotus, to protect the land. A child cannot walk with us. Not yet."
"But one day?" asked Liu Jian, voice low.
Li Heng's gaze turned toward the village, where a dim lamplight flickered in Lady Chen's home. "One day," he admitted. "If he survives long enough to grow."
The days that followed were uneasy. The Nine remained in Yun, watchful for the Lotus' return. They helped rebuild what little damage had been done, earning the villagers' wary gratitude. But the people's eyes always flicked toward Chen Feng some fearful, some reverent.
Chen Feng himself walked as if on fire. He shadowed the Brothers whenever he could, pestering them with questions.
"How did you move so fast?" he asked Zhou Ke, who only smirked and vanished into a roofbeam.
"Can you show me how to punch like that?" he begged Guo Tian, who ruffled his hair and sent him away.
"Teach me to hold a sword!" he demanded of Li Heng, who fixed him with a glare so sharp the boy flinched but did not yield.
Each refusal only stoked his resolve. At night, he slipped into the fields with a branch for a blade, slashing at shadows until sweat drenched his small body. His palms blistered, his shoulders ached, but he ground his teeth and continued. When exhaustion dropped him into the grass, he dreamed of fire curling into the shape of a dragon, urging him onward.
His mother found him once, bruised and bleeding under the moonlight. She knelt, gathering him into her arms, her voice breaking.
"Why must you do this? You are only a boy. Why chase a path of swords?"
Chen Feng looked up at her, eyes fierce despite tears streaking his face. "Because if I don't, they'll take me. If I'm strong, I can fight. If I'm strong, I can protect you."
Her heart twisted. She wanted to forbid him, to lock him inside the safety of home. But she remembered the rider's words, the Lotus' hunger, the way the Brothers looked at her son. Fate was already upon them.
She could only hold him tighter, as though her embrace could shield him from Heaven itself.
One evening, as the Brothers prepared to depart, Chen Feng approached their fire once more. His stick-sword was strapped to his back with frayed cord. His face was set in grim determination.
"Take me with you," he demanded.
The Brothers fell silent. Even Feng Wuyue's usual smile faded.
Li Heng stood. His shadow fell across the boy like a mountain. "No."
Chen Feng's fists clenched. "Why not? I'll fight! I'll train! I'll"
Li Heng's voice cut him off, cold as steel. "Because you are not ready. Because war devours children. Because to walk with us is to die before you live."
"I don't care!" Chen Feng shouted. "I'll never be ready if no one teaches me!"
His voice cracked, but his eyes shone with fire.
For a long moment, Li Heng only stared. Then, slowly, he knelt, his hand resting on the boy's shoulder. The weight of it was heavy as iron.
"Listen well," he said. "Strength is not born in a day. It is hammered like steel, scar by scar, wound by wound. If you chase it too soon, it will consume you. Grow, Chen Feng. Live. When you are ready, the path will find you."
Chen Feng bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. But he did not cry. He only nodded, though the fire in his chest roared hotter.
The Brothers left at dawn. Their figures dwindled on the road, banners of dust trailing behind them. The villagers watched with relief, but Chen Feng watched with longing, his hands clenched until his nails dug crescents into his palms.
Someday, he vowed. Someday, I will walk that road.
That night, Lady Chen found him sitting alone by the river, staring at the stars.
"Do you hate me, Feng'er?" she asked softly.
He turned, startled. "No, Mother! Why"
"Because I cannot give you the life you want. Because I fear what lies ahead."
Chen Feng's face softened. "I don't hate you. I just… I feel like there's something burning inside me. Like if I stay here, it'll eat me alive. I need to be more."
She closed her eyes, tears slipping free. "Then promise me only this whatever path you walk, do not lose your heart. Fire can warm, but it can also destroy. Remember you are human before you are flame."
He nodded solemnly, not fully understanding, but the weight of her words sank deep into his bones.
In the weeks that followed, life in Yun Valley returned to fragile calm. The Brothers' names lingered like distant thunder, the Lotus' shadow loomed beyond the horizon, but for a time, Chen Feng returned to chores, to play, to childhood.
Yet each night, he trained in secret, stick flashing in moonlight, sweat dripping into the soil. His body grew lean, his resolve sharper. He bore his bruises as badges, his calluses as proof.
He was still a child. But within him, the ember of destiny glowed, waiting for the wind to fan it into flame.
And somewhere on distant roads, the Nine Brothers walked, carrying their oath, knowing though none spoke it aloud that their path and his would one day converge, and when it did, Heaven and Earth alike would tremble.