Golden ginkgo petals fell like a folkloric dance of the winds.
It would not have been unusual to find spirits lingering there, admiring the scenery. An autumn morning in the mountains.
Anchored among the rocks, the Jade Dragon School rose into view—no distance on the horizon could obscure it. Known as the oldest martial sect of the Empire, countless songs and tales are told of its most illustrious disciples, heroes whose names shaped history.
A spring of fresh water flowed down the mountain, and upon that slope, two figures stood.
With his legs half submerged in the riverbed was a young man with long black hair, skin pale as the mist of dawn, and traditional jade-colored robes draped over his body. His face was drenched in sweat, exhausted, his eyes struggling merely to remain open.
Beside him, seated atop a stone in lotus posture, rested an older man. His head was perfectly shaved, almost immaculate, save for the mark upon his forehead—a dragon devouring itself. His robes were green as well, but unlike the young man's, they bore history: scars, patches, and memories sewn into every fold.
"That stance is still not perfect," the older man said.
The throbbing pain in the young man's legs was evident. In a brief moment of weakness, he faltered and dropped to his knees. The water reflected his face, a mixture of disappointment and restrained fury.
"Master… Master Yulong! I must learn. I cannot lose again."
"The dragon does not force the river," the master replied calmly."He becomes the river. You are young—you have yet to know all the defeats destiny has prepared for you."
The young man rose once more. His legs found balance, his arms moved—flowing, settling, establishing themselves. In his posture, the shape of a dragon could be seen.
The water slowed around his body. The petals altered their course.Something stirred within his heart.
Tiny points of light emerged from all living things, connected like the roots of a vast unseen tree. The young man became a conduit, a path through which the energy of the environment flowed.
Then, as quickly as a flash in the darkness, it vanished.
"I felt it this time…" Pride touched his features.
"Li Shen! What made you release the connection? Where was your mind?"
"I'm sorry, Master."
A snap from the bushes alerted them both.
"Who goes there? Reveal yourself!" Yulong commanded.
A figure emerged slowly from between the shrubs. His identity became clear: a young man with short hair, brown with hints of red, dressed in white robes bound with black and white sashes. On his back was the emblem of his origin—a White Tiger.
"You should stop this, Li Shen. You still haven't mastered your Qi, yet you dare claim you can face me. Every year, you end up on the ground."
"Bai Huoran! Were you spying on me to uncover my weaknesses?" Li Shen snapped.
"Poor Li. I hoped to see something surprising this year—and you are not it."
"If your eyes were open, I almost succeeded!"
"Almost defeated me. Almost won. Almost earned the right to wear that guzhuang," Bai Huoran said as he stepped closer."Come. Let me spare you the shame of the Tiandu Martial Tournament. No one needs to see you fall—again."
"If that's what you're looking for—"
Like a passing breeze, Yulong anticipated their movements and placed himself between them.
"This is neither the time nor the place," Yulong declared.
"Master, allow me to prove that your training has borne fruit," Li Shen said, bowing deeply as he awaited permission.
"Come now, Yulong," Bai Huoran scoffed. "Let your disciple prove to himself how wrong he is."
Yulong exchanged a brief glance with Li, then nodded.
"It won't be like before, Huoran!" Li Shen shouted as he charged forward.
The water churned. His soaked robes weighed heavy as his long strides closed the distance.
Li Shen rotated his body to the left, his fist striking toward Bai Huoran—only for Bai to redirect the attack with a swift, serpentine motion of his hands, twisting Li's arm and breaking his balance.
"Well, well. Such remarkable improvement," Bai mocked. "Come on—attack!"
Bai Huoran planted his feet into the ground like deep roots. His breathing slowed. His body hardened, fists clenched, elbows tight to his sides.
"Persistent Tiger Stance."
Li Shen steadied himself. He recognized that unshakable posture.
His steps grew light. The ground seemed to lose its solidity. Like mist, Li moved through the space, his open hand shaped like a jade scale, thrusting toward Bai Huoran's chest. The swift cut of the movement disturbed the air itself.
"Gentle Cut of the Jade Scale!"
Li Shen struck the center of Bai Huoran's ribcage. A small tear appeared in Bai's robe where the blow had landed.
"Heh… you call that a strike? I didn't even move an inch."
A crimson energy surged from the ground, flowing up Bai Huoran's legs, through his body, and pooling in his right fist. In a single, explosive motion, the energy struck Li Shen's chest—followed instantly by Bai's fist impacting the same spot. A shockwave burst forth behind Li.
"First Form of the White Tiger: Mountain-Shattering Fist."
Li Shen's legs gave out. His body collapsed to the ground. Just before losing consciousness, his eyes caught sight of his rival—not with a look of victory. For a fleeting moment, he almost believed Bai Huoran had shown him respect.
"Li!" Yulong rushed to his side.
The master grasped Li by the shoulders, pulling him onto his lap—and then noticed the back of Li Shen's robes had torn open.
"You inherited it from him, didn't you… Bai Huoran?" Yulong asked quietly.
"The past will not repeat itself, Old Dragon. I am stronger than my father ever was."
Bai Huoran cast one last glance at his fallen rival before turning toward the River Delta.
"I won't lose to you," Li murmured—whether conscious or lost in delirium, none could say.
Bai merely nodded and continued on his path.
Near the river's delta, Bai Huoran's steps slowed. He stopped.
A sharp pain tore through his body. His lungs constricted as a violent cough seized him, blood spraying from his lips. His eyes darted to the spot where Li Shen's strike had landed earlier.
The skin there had darkened.