Years passed in the valley, as quietly as streams eroding stone.
Chen Feng grew tall and wiry, his limbs honed by toil in the fields and nights of stolen training. At thirteen, he could lift a full water bucket without spilling, could climb the tallest mulberry tree without a branch breaking, could run the dike paths faster than the older boys who once mocked him. His hands, once soft as river clay, had hardened with callus; his shoulders carried the beginnings of strength.
The villagers, though still wary, began to watch him with grudging respect. When wolves prowled the paddies one winter, it was Chen Feng who chased them off with a burning torch, his shout echoing like thunder. When the river swelled in spring and threatened to drown the paddies, he dove into the flood to rescue a child swept away, dragging him ashore with lungs near to bursting.
Yet whispers clung to him still. Some said his fire mark glowed when moonlight struck it. Others swore his eyes burned red when angered. Mothers hushed their children as he passed, torn between gratitude and fear.
Only Lady Chen knew the truth of her son's nights the endless hours when he trained in secret, copying the stances he had glimpsed from the Brothers years before. His stick had become a carved wooden blade, its hilt wrapped in cloth. He moved through fields by moonlight, his breath steady, his steps awkward but growing surer. He knew no master, no scrolls, only the memory of what he had seen and yet, something within him guided his hands.
It was as though the fire itself whispered, shaping his strikes, pushing his body beyond what he thought possible.
But with every new step, his mother's heart grew heavier.
"Feng'er," she told him often, "the world of swords is blood. Once you take that path, there is no return."
And he would answer, eyes set and stubborn, "I was born on that path, Mother. You know it as well as I."
She could not argue, for deep in her heart, she feared it was true.
One evening, late in the autumn of his thirteenth year, Chen Feng wandered beyond the valley's edge. The sky was red with sunset, and cicadas droned in the trees. He had gone farther than usual, his wooden sword strapped to his back, chasing the restless pull in his chest.
He came upon a clearing where travelers had camped. The ground was churned, ashes cold, but the signs of departure were fresh. And among the footprints heavy, disciplined, moving in perfect formation were others.
Armored boots.
Lotus boots.
Chen Feng crouched, his fingers brushing the impressions in the soil. His blood ran cold. The Lotus had returned.
That night, the village gathered in uneasy silence. Chen Feng stood at the edge of the crowd, heart hammering, as strangers walked into the square. They were not armored this time, but cloaked, their faces shadowed. They claimed to be envoys of the southern magistrate, come to "collect grain taxes" for the war effort.
But Chen Feng recognized the boots.
He whispered to his mother, "They're Lotus."
"Silence!" she hissed, fear in her eyes. "Say nothing, Feng'er. Please."
He bit back his words, but rage coiled in his chest like a snake.
The envoys demanded half the harvest more than the valley could spare. When the headman protested, a cloaked soldier struck him to the ground. Fear broke the crowd. Grain stores were opened, sacks carried off into the night.
Chen Feng's nails dug into his palms until blood ran. He wanted to strike, to leap, to fight. But his mother's hand clutched his sleeve, trembling, and he knew to act would bring ruin upon them all.
Yet as the Lotus departed with their stolen harvest, one of them turned. Beneath the shadow of his hood, eyes glimmered red fixed not on the villagers, but on Chen Feng.
The man smiled.
That night, Chen Feng lay awake, staring at the rafters. His chest burned, his hands shook.
"They know me," he whispered. "They're here for me."
His mother turned away, silent tears staining her pillow.
Days passed. The valley starved. With half their harvest gone, families tightened belts, children went hungry. Resentment simmered like coals. And Chen Feng felt the villagers' eyes upon him heavier than ever.
"They came for the fire child," he overheard one night. "If not for him, Yun would be safe."
"They'll return," another muttered. "They'll take him next time. Better to send him away ourselves."
Lady Chen heard too, and her hands never stopped trembling.
Chen Feng's jaw set like iron. He would not cower. He would not let them suffer because of him. If strength was what it took, then strength he would seize.
So he trained harder. When his body begged for rest, he drove it further. When blisters tore open, he wrapped them and gripped his wooden sword until blood slicked the handle. He moved until he collapsed, then rose and moved again.
Fire was his teacher, pain his companion.
And slowly, something shifted. His movements grew surer, his strikes swifter. When he cut through the air, the hiss carried weight. When he focused, heat seemed to gather in his palms, searing faint trails into the wood.
The ember within him stirred.
But destiny did not wait.
One dawn, smoke rose on the horizon. Soldiers again. The Lotus.
This time, they did not come as taxmen. They came as hunters.
Chen Feng was in the fields when he saw them black-armored riders cutting across the dikes, banners marked with the crimson lotus unfurling in the wind. His heart lurched. He dropped his tools and ran.
By the time he reached the village, chaos reigned. Soldiers herded families into the square, blades flashing. The headman pleaded, his voice breaking, but the captain only laughed.
"We come not for grain," the masked man declared. "We come for the child."
All eyes turned to Chen Feng.
His mother clutched him, desperation carved into her face. The villagers shrank back, torn between fear and pity.
Chen Feng's pulse thundered. His wooden sword felt light in his hand, but his knees trembled. He was still a boy untrained, untested. Yet if he did nothing, all would fall.
The Lotus captain stepped forward, his mask painted with crimson lines. "Give him to us, and no blood need spill."
Silence.
Chen Feng's chest burned. His voice broke free before he could stop it.
"No!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The captain tilted his head, amused.
"Then you will die first."
He raised his blade. Soldiers surged forward.
And in that moment, the fire in Chen Feng's blood roared awake.
The world slowed.
Chen Feng felt the captain's blade rising like a mountain above him, yet his heart did not falter. The fire-mark on his shoulder burned as if branded anew, heat rushing through his veins until the air shimmered around him.
The first soldier lunged. Instinct not training, not thought moved Chen Feng's body. His wooden sword flashed up, parrying the steel with a crack that should have shattered the stick. But it held. Sparks danced as though the branch itself had tasted flame.
Gasps rose from the villagers.
Chen Feng spun, striking back. The blow landed square against the soldier's helm and to the astonishment of all, the armored man staggered, helmet dented as if by iron.
The boy panted, chest heaving. Fear and fury clashed in his mind, but deeper than either burned a wild exhilaration.
The captain's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "So the spark awakens." He raised his hand. "Take him!"
Four soldiers surged forward.
Chen Feng's arms shook as he swung, blocking one, ducking another, stumbling as a third kicked his legs from under him. His wooden blade clattered across the stones. Pain seared his ribs. He gasped, vision swimming.
His mother's cry split the air. "Feng'er!"
The soldiers closed in. Steel gleamed.
And then the river roared.
From beyond the fields came a voice, loud as thunder: "Lotus filth! Your prey is not yours to claim!"
The Nine Brothers entered the square like storm winds.
Li Heng led the charge, sword flashing with iron discipline. Wu Zhen advanced beside him, chanting sutras that rang like temple bells, his staff scattering soldiers with each swing. Feng Wuyue leapt atop a roof, raining arrows as he laughed, his lute string twanging between volleys.
The square erupted in chaos once more.
Chen Feng scrambled to his feet, chest burning. Relief surged as he recognized the Brothers. They had returned not too late.
Guo Tian waded into the fray with fists like falling hammers, smashing helmets, scattering foes. Liu Jian swept his long spear in great arcs, knocking men from their feet. Zhou Ke vanished and reappeared among the enemy, his daggers flashing with deadly precision.
Even the aloof Luo Yan moved like a shadow of death, each strike ending with cold finality.
But it was Li Heng who faced the captain. Their blades met with a clash that shook the square. Steel rang, sparks flew. The captain laughed behind his mask.
"So, the Nine Dogs still live."
"And you still crawl from shadows," Li Heng answered coldly. "But you will not take the boy."
The captain struck with savage speed, his crimson blade weaving like fire itself. Li Heng met each strike with precise counters, his form unyielding, his discipline unbroken. The villagers could scarcely follow their exchange, only the storm of sparks and the ringing of steel.
Chen Feng watched, breathless. His heart pounded with awe, but also with shame he had stood for a moment, yes, but against the Lotus, he was still a child.
He clenched his fists. Not forever.
The battle raged. Soldiers fell one by one before the Brothers, yet the Lotus captain fought like a demon. His blade whirled, driving Li Heng back step by step.
Wu Zhen struck in, his staff humming with power but the captain parried and sent him reeling. Zhou Ke slashed from behind only for the captain to twist aside, leaving the trickster's dagger biting air.
The man laughed, voice echoing. "Even nine cannot best me? No wonder the world crumbles."
But then Feng Wuyue's voice sang from the rooftop, mocking and bright: "Perhaps nine alone. But have you counted ten?"
The captain snarled. "Ten?"
Chen Feng's pulse roared. He knew Wuyue was speaking of him.
The boy staggered to his feet, wooden sword trembling in his grip. He could barely stand, his ribs aching, but fire burned in his blood. Without thinking, he shouted, "I'm not afraid of you!"
The captain's gaze snapped to him. For a moment, Chen Feng thought he saw something flicker behind the mask recognition, even fear.
But the man only growled and struck Li Heng back with a powerful blow. With a sharp whistle, he called his surviving soldiers.
"This is not the end. The flame is ours by right. Next time, the Lotus will not fail."
With smoke bombs bursting, they vanished into the night like shadows swallowed by wind.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of torches and the moans of the wounded.
The villagers stared at the Brothers, at the ruined square, and most of all, at Chen Feng. The boy stood trembling, wooden sword clenched, his fire-mark glowing faintly through the torn cloth of his tunic.
"He fought them," someone whispered. "A child… but he fought."
Another muttered, "No child. He's… something else."
Fear mingled with awe in their voices.
Chen Feng lowered his sword, shame burning through the fire in his chest. He was alive but only because the Brothers had come. Alone, he would have fallen.
Later, as the villagers scattered, Lady Chen knelt by her son, holding him tight.
"Feng'er, why did you stand? You could have been killed!"
He shook, but his voice was steady. "Because if I don't fight, they'll keep coming. They'll never stop. I have to be strong, Mother. I have to."
Her tears wet his hair. "But you're still my boy. I don't want Heaven to take you."
He clutched her back fiercely. "Then I'll fight Heaven too."
That night, the Brothers gathered again by the river. Chen Feng stood apart, listening unseen.
"He awakened something," Wu Zhen murmured. "The flame within him stirred."
"It is only beginning," said Luo Yan. "Soon the Lotus will throw armies to claim him."
Li Heng's jaw tightened. "We cannot stay here. If the boy remains, the valley will burn."
Silence fell.
Feng Wuyue plucked a quiet chord. "Then what do we do? Abandon him to fate? Or take him as one of us, before the Lotus does?"
Zhou Ke scoffed. "He's thirteen. Barely a fledgling. He'll slow us down, cost us lives."
Guo Tian's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "But he has heart. Did you not see him stand? A boy with that much fire may grow into a man no enemy can quench."
Li Heng's eyes narrowed, staring toward the lamplight of Lady Chen's house. "The choice is not ours. The choice is his. And his mother's."
Chen Feng returned home under the weight of their words. His heart felt torn between fear and pride, between his mother's tears and the fire in his veins.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling, wooden sword across his chest. He knew, with certainty, that his childhood was over.
The Lotus would return. The Brothers would not remain forever.
And when next the fire called, he would have to answer not as a child, but as one who walked the road of blades.
The next morning dawned gray. Mist clung to the valley, muffling the cries of cranes. Smoke still drifted from the square where the Lotus had struck.
Chen Feng awoke before the rooster's crow. His body ached, ribs bruised, hands blistered, but his mind burned with restless fire. He rose quietly, careful not to wake his mother, and stepped outside.
The air was cold, his breath steaming. He walked to the fields where he had trained so many nights before, drew his wooden sword, and began again.
Strike. Step. Breathe.
He moved clumsily, his form jagged, his balance imperfect but there was something behind it, something raw and fierce. When he thrust, he felt the world narrow to a single point. When he slashed, the air hissed as though scorched.
He lost himself in the rhythm until a voice cut through the mist.
"You hold that sword like a farmer holds a hoe."
Chen Feng spun. Standing at the field's edge was Zhou Ke, the trickster, daggers spinning idly in his hands. He smirked. "Clumsy, stiff, and yet… spirited."
Before Chen Feng could answer, another voice joined. "Spirit without form is like fire without a hearth. It burns bright, then dies."
Li Heng stepped from the mist, his tall figure stern as a temple pillar. Behind him came Wu Zhen, staff tapping the earth, and Guo Tian, broad as a wall. Slowly, the Nine gathered, watching the boy who had unknowingly drawn them here.
Chen Feng gripped his sword tighter, standing straight though his heart raced. "You all saw yesterday. I can't hide anymore. If the Lotus want me, then I must be strong enough to face them. Teach me."
The words spilled out, reckless and raw. He bowed low, forehead nearly touching the wet grass. "Please."
The Brothers exchanged glances. Zhou Ke chuckled. "Bold little rooster."
Wu Zhen's brows furrowed in pity. "The path of martial blood is cruel, boy. Are you ready for its price?"
"I was born with its price," Chen Feng answered without lifting his head. "I won't let others pay it for me."
Silence fell. Then Li Heng said, "It is not we who must decide."
Later that day, Lady Chen stood before the Nine. Her face was pale, her hands trembling, but her eyes held iron.
"You would take him from me," she said.
Li Heng bowed, solemn. "If he stays, the Lotus will return, and Yun Valley will be destroyed. If he leaves with us, he may yet live, and one day be strong enough to end this curse."
Her lips trembled. "He is thirteen. Just a boy."
Feng Wuyue stepped forward, his tone softer. "A boy, yes. But one who already carries the mark of Heaven's fire. The Lotus will not rest. You know this, Lady Chen. Keeping him here is not safety it is only waiting for the blade to fall."
Tears welled in her eyes. "And if I say no? Will you drag him away?"
Guo Tian rumbled, voice low. "No. We are warriors, not thieves. The choice is his and yours."
The room fell still. Lady Chen looked at her son, standing tall though his hands trembled.
"Feng'er," she whispered. "Do you wish this?"
His throat was dry. He wanted to say no, to stay, to plow fields and grow old by the river. But he remembered the Lotus captain's eyes, the villagers' fear, his mother's tears. He remembered the fire in his chest when he had stood with nothing but a wooden stick.
He bowed deeply to her. "I wish it, Mother. I must."
Her tears fell, but she nodded. "Then go, my son. But promise me…" She caught his hands in hers, clutching them fiercely. "Promise me you will not let this fire consume you. Promise me you will remain my Feng'er, even when the world calls you otherwise."
He swallowed hard, his eyes burning. "I promise."
The decision made, the Brothers tested him that very night.
They led him to the riverbank, where the mist curled like ghosts. Li Heng drew his sword and placed it upright in the earth.
"If you would walk our road," he said, voice like iron, "then first you must swear your heart."
One by one, the Nine stood in a circle. Zhou Ke with his daggers, Wu Zhen with his staff, Feng Wuyue with his bow, Luo Yan with his silent blade, Liu Jian with his spear, Guo Tian with his fists, Zhao Ming with his scrolls, Shen Kuan with his alchemy pouches, and Li Heng himself with his sword.
Chen Feng stood in the center, the mist curling about his ankles, his wooden blade in hand. His knees shook, but his voice did not falter.
"I, Chen Feng, son of Lady Chen, swear before Heaven and Earth: I will walk the road of the sword, though it lead through fire and shadow. I will fight the Lotus, though they come with endless armies. I will guard those who cannot guard themselves. I will not abandon my brothers, nor betray the fire in my blood. If I falter, may Heaven strike me down."
His words echoed against the river.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Guo Tian grinned and clapped his shoulder so hard he nearly fell. "Good! Fire indeed."
Wu Zhen murmured a blessing, his beads clicking softly. Luo Yan gave only a curt nod. Zhou Ke winked. "Bold rooster no more. Now, a chick in the nest."
Li Heng lifted his sword, eyes solemn. "From this night, you are the Tenth."
And the Nine bowed their heads welcoming him not as a boy, but as a brother.
That night, Chen Feng lay awake again, but this time the fire in his chest was not only fury. It was resolve. He knew the road ahead would be filled with blood, with loss, with trials no child should bear. But he was no longer only a child.
He was the Tenth Brother.
And for the first time, the fire within him did not feel like a curse.
It felt like destiny.