Han Sen applied himself to the art of trade, seeking prosperity for Hok Si Beng’s trading house.

  The village physician of Baihe Li found himself depleted of the red ginger root so vital to his remedies. He offered four hundred copper coins for a single measure – a ‘dan’ – of the precious root. A 'dan' held roughly one hundred and twenty 'jin' or ‘catties,’ and a 'jin' divided into sixteen liang.’

  Han Sen sought out the farmers who cultivated the red ginger. He intended to sell his wares for two hundred and fifty copper coins per ‘dan,’ but the farmer was presently in need of two ‘dan’ of large potatoes. Thus, Han Sen continued his search, seeking a potato farmer whose heart was lightened by a bountiful harvest.

  He found one and readily purchased two ‘dan’ of the large potatoes for a mere one hundred and forty copper coins. Carrying them to the ginger farmer, he bartered them for a single ‘dan’ of the red ginger root. With a lightness of heart, he then carried it to the physician’s door, receiving his four hundred copper coins.

  Han Sen calculated his gains: a profit of two hundred and sixty copper coins, achieved through nothing more than his willingness to travel from one field to another.

  Others might find his methods distasteful due to the need for travel between farm land, but for Han Sen, blessed with a wellspring of qi and mastery of the Five Winds movement, these endeavors took less than two hours and allowed him to train, to sweat, and to find a peculiar joy in the labor.

  Uncle Beng was delighted to receive the two hundred and sixty copper coins earned in so brief a time. His trust in Han Sen deepened, a seed of reliance blossoming into a sturdy vine.

  The fervor of Han Sen had ignited the other workers, and the heavens seemed to favor their endeavors, blessing them with a burgeoning enterprise. A substantial order arrived from the city of Luoyang, requesting a bounty of local produce, exquisite wooden crafts, and the unique forest honey of the Baihe plains. The purchaser was a newly appointed official, seeking provisions for a grand celebration planned for the coming month.

  Uncle Beng, ever the shrewd businessman, was eager to fulfill the extensive list. Within a mere three days, the provisions were meticulously prepared and loaded onto two massive carts.

  "Uncle," Han Sen inquired, his voice carrying a hint of anticipation, "when will the goods depart?"

  "Not just yet, young one," replied Uncle Beng, his eyes twinkling with experience. "We await the arrival of the official's representative. He is tasked with verifying the fulfillment of the order, ensuring all is in accordance before the journey to Luoyang commences."

  "But we've met every requirement on the list," Han Sen pressed. "What further issue could there be?"

  Uncle Beng chuckled, a knowing sound. "Sen-er, we know we have satisfied the written request, but do they know it? It is prudent to dispatch someone to inspect all things before departure, to confirm there are no shortcomings or errors. Such diligence is customary, for we are but men, and prone to mistakes."

  Han Sen's mind drifted to his martial training. His master, Lou Siat, tolerated no deviation from perfection.

  “Draw breath from the dantian, not the chest! Let qi flow like mercury, sinking into the Yongquan points!”

  Each stance, each movement, each position of limb, hand, and foot, must be precise. The breath must be aligned. To learn martial arts was to study certainty; there was no room for improvisation, no allowance for change.

  Yet, in the grand tapestry of life, all things possessed endless variations, constant flux. The seasons shifted; rain did not always fall when expected, and the wind did not always blow from the same direction. And men, with their capricious hearts and minds, their shifting desires – commerce was a dance with such forces, a realm where certainty was but a fleeting illusion. Plans could crumble, designs could be overturned.

  What had once proven successful could now lead to ruin. What had previously failed could bloom into a source of triumph.

  Han Sen smiled, a quiet understanding dawning in his eyes. Every day offered a new lesson.

  The following day, a rider arrived at Uncle Beng’s trading shop. He was a servant of the newly appointed official, a man named Ouwyang Lu. Uncle Beng greeted him with warmth, guiding him through the meticulously prepared goods. Ouwyang Lu appeared thoroughly satisfied, impressed by the accuracy of the quantities and the impeccable quality of the provisions.

  "Excellent, excellent! Let us depart for Luoyang without delay!" Ouwyang Lu declared, his voice ringing with satisfaction.

  The dawn arrived, painting the sky with hues of rose and gold as they prepared to depart. Han Sen, taking the place of Tek Liong, Uncle Beng’s son, would journey to Luoyang. Tek Liong, preferring ease to exertion, chose the comforts of idleness over the three-day trek on foot.

  Han Sen, however, pulsed with a quiet eagerness. He swiftly gathered his meager possessions, including the Lightning Sword that fractured into four pieces, a constant reminder of past trials. Uncle Beng offered no objection; Han Sen’s strength was undeniable. Alone, he could bear the weight of four ‘Dan’ sacks with effortless ease – a single man’s strength equaling that of three laborers!

  The company consisted of two carts, each drawn by a single steed and attended by a pair of drivers. Han Sen and Uncle Beng rode astride their horses, while Master Ouwyang Lu led the way upon his own mount.

  Throughout the first half of their journey, Han Sen observed Uncle Beng engaged in a grave conversation with Ouwyang Lu. The elder’s face grew ashen, his head shaking with a troubled sigh.

  Noticing his distress, Han Sen approached.

  "Uncle," he inquired gently, "what troubles you? Your countenance speaks of worry.”

  “Haaahh… Han Sen, I pray this news does not fill you with undue fear. Master Ouwyang Lu was just speaking of widespread calamities plaguing the entire kingdom. Monstrous beasts roam freely, laying waste to villages and emboldening brigands. The lawlessness spreads with each passing day, and even the bandits now wield martial skills far beyond what they once possessed."

  "Like the giant lizard attacks of old, Uncle?" Han Sen furrowed his brow, recalling the harrowing tales.

  “Indeed,” Uncle Beng replied somberly. “It seems these savage incursions are not confined to our own village.”

  "Fear not, for I am here," Ouwyang Lu interjected, his voice a low rumble.

  “Thank you, Master," Uncle Beng responded, inclining his head. Han Sen followed suit, offering his respects to the imposing man. Though large of frame and possessing a formidable jaw adorned with a thick, black beard, Ouwyang Lu carried himself with an air of unexpected kindness and humility.

  "Master," Han Sen asked, "is the situation truly as dire as you say?"

  “Haaah, dire it is," Ouwyang Lu affirmed, "but let us hope it does not mirror the past, when rebellion and war consumed the land."

  "Were those times truly so wretched?" Han Sen inquired. He remembered his father, a celebrated hero of the kingdom for his role in crushing a previous rebellion.

  “I served as a military scout under General Guo Ziyi," Ouwyang Lu answered, "but with the war concluded, I’ve been assigned as a deputy commander of a zhechongfu (regiment) in Luoyang."

  “Master,” Han Sen hesitated, then spoke the name that lingered in his heart, “Have you ever heard of Han Lei?”

  “Han Lei? You speak of Lightning Captain, slayer of Shi Siming’s champion, savior of the Tong Pass? Of course! The hero Han Lei himself once saved my life! Truly, a great hero!” Ouwyang Lu exclaimed, his gaze lifted to the heavens in reverence.

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  A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Han Sen. It was a poignant moment. He possessed no proof, no mark to attest to his lineage. How could he claim to be the son of Han Lei?

  Heroism existed only within the gilded speeches of high officials, those who sought to impress the populace. The reality was far harsher: once the funeral pyre had cooled and the commemorative plaque affixed, the families of heroes were often forgotten. From childhood onward, Han Sen and his mother had known nothing of government assistance or recognition.

  Yet, witnessing Ouwyang Lu’s profound respect, Han Sen felt a surge of warmth and affection. If his father had once saved this man's life, then surely he was a man of inherent goodness. It was a comforting thought, a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainties that lay ahead.

  Two days passed without incident. But on the third morn, as they entered a dense forest, their small caravan – two carts accompanied by a couple of horses – was suddenly blocked by twenty brigands. The number was far greater than the usual petty thieves, rarely exceeding five.

  They materialized from the shadows, flanking the company on both sides of the narrow road, the thick forest pressing close on either hand.

  "Halt! Surrender your valuables, or face death!" roared the bandit leader, his voice rough and menacing.

  “I am Ouwyang Lu, deputy head of the Tiger Zhechongfu of Luoyang City! Disperse now, or share a fate you’ll regret!” Ouwyang Lu countered, his voice ringing with authority.

  "Hah? Deputy head of the zhechongfu? Then it would be better if you all perish here, lest word of this reach Luoyang!" the bandit leader sneered. "Men, attack them!"

  "Beware, Han Sen! Disembark your steed and seek shelter in the cart!" Uncle Beng warned, already moving to intercept a portion of the brigands. As Han Sen slid from his horse, Uncle Beng braced himself, facing down a throng of cutthroats. Ouwyang Lu drew his sword, spurred his mount, and charged towards the bandit leader.

  Ouwyang Lu grappled with twelve bandits, while Uncle Beng, surprisingly skilled in martial arts, engaged eight others wielding blades. The brigands fought with savage fury, their intent clear: to kill. A palpable aura of death hung heavy in the humid air of the forest.

  Han Sen yearned to assist, but before moving, he observed the clash. Uncle Beng possessed some martial skill, but it was evident he relied solely on brute strength, lacking the internal energy that fueled true mastery. The bandits, too, fought with raw power and clumsy movements. Likely former farmers or vagrants, they swung their swords with mindless abandon.

  Yet Ouwyang Lu moved with the precision and grace of a seasoned soldier, his martial arts honed with internal energy. But Han Sen's gaze lingered on the bandit leader, and two others who had remained on the roadside, merely observing.

  With swiftness born of instinct, Han Sen took a staff and then darted towards Uncle Beng, employing his Art of Vanishing. The chaos of the battle, compounded by the deep shadows of the ancient trees, rendered him unseen. No one noticed the sixteen-year-old boy vanish from sight.

  A series of powerful strikes, delivered with the force of his Five Thunders Palm, sent the eight bandits facing Uncle Beng sprawling unconscious. He refused to resort to cruel blows to end their lives. Uncle Beng stared in astonishment as his opponents were hurled aside, collapsing in motionless heaps.

  Seeing this, the bandit leader bellowed to his men, "Focus your efforts there!" and joined the fray with his two companions, taking out their unique weapons, confronting Ouwyang Lu. They too possessed internal energy, comparable to Ouwyang Lu’s, and their martial arts were swift and unrelenting. The tide of the battle swiftly turned against Ouwyang Lu, forcing him from a position of attack to a desperate defense.

  "You...you deserters from the Tibetan army!" Ouwyang Lu exclaimed, recognizing the weapons and familiar style of their movements, "Why do you sow chaos here?"

  "Hah? Still questioning your fate when death is near?" the bandit leader scoffed. It was true; they were Tibetans, of the Uyghur tribe, who had once aided the Tang Dynasty. Now, it seemed, some had deserted and become brigands, operating disturbingly close to Luoyang. The bandit leader himself likely once held a military rank; his martial arts surpassing even Ouwyang Lu’s.

  Han Sen swiftly dispatched the remaining common bandits, easily felling them with his powerful strikes. He was poised to aid Ouwyang Lu, but the deputy head's predicament was precarious, a desperate dance where a single misstep could be fatal. He couldn’t risk a blow that would leave Ouwyang Lu with no time to evade.

  With a sigh of regret, Han Sen relinquished his Art of Vanishing. Ouwyang Lu and his three adversaries stared in disbelief as Han Sen materialized amidst them. They initially had dismissed him as a mere boy, but the sudden force of his Five Thunders Palm drove them back, leaving them reeling and disoriented.

  The late afternoon wind whispered through the pines, carrying the scent of damp earth and moss. Han Sen stood firm, the wooden staff in his grasp radiating a gentle warmth. Before him, three figures stood like specters, their eyes reflecting a cruel light.

  The first, the bandit leader, a man with a wild mane of hair and a tangled beard, wielded a curved Tibetan blade known as a Phurba. The second, powerfully built and muscled, swung a kukri, a large knife with a wickedly curved blade. The third, the youngest, possessed the most nimble movements, dancing with two small Buddha-carved mallets called dhaaru.

  The bearded man moved first. He surged forward with surprising speed, the Phurba slicing through the air in a whirling arc. Han Sen met the attack with his staff, twisting his body in the Scattering Petals in the Breeze, deflecting the lethal blade's path. The clash of wood and steel echoed through the forest's stillness. Han Sen countered with the Coiling Dragon Ripping Through Clouds, his staff winding like a striking serpent, aimed at the Tibetan’s wrist.

  The man wielding the kukri joined the assault. He advanced with a menacing stride, the blade arcing toward Han Sen’s legs. Han Sen leaped backward, utilizing the Pounce of the Shadow Cat, landing lightly upon a moss-covered stone. He channeled the momentum of his jump into the Dance of the Tiger in the Shadows, his body flowing with deceptive speed, evading the threatening sweep of the kukri.

  The third man, with the dhaaru, unleashed a rapid and rhythmic barrage. He pirouetted around Han Sen, the small mallets hammering from every direction. Han Sen felt the strain, struggling to deflect each blow. He invoked the East Wind Dispelling Clouds, leaping and twisting, dodging the relentless cascade of dhaaru strikes. He knew he needed to alter his strategy.

  Han Sen inhaled deeply, focusing his inner energy. He unleashed the Thunderclap at Peak, his staff arcing like a sickle, aimed toward the third man’s head. The Tibetan raised his dhaaru to parry, but the force of the Thunderclap at Peak was overwhelming. He staggered back, a throbbing ache blooming in his skull.

  Seizing the opening, Han Sen launched the Thunderclap Palm Deflecting Dragon, his staff striking the Tibetan’s abdomen with full force. The man reeled, his eyes widening in astonishment. Han Sen wasted no time, springing forward and unleashing the Eagle’s Claw to the Heavens, his staff aimed at the Tibetan’s chest. The man had no time to react. He stumbled and fell to the earth, coughing.

  The bearded man and the kukri wielder realized they must act swiftly. They united, attacking Han Sen with a double assault. The bearded man slashed with his Phurba, while the one with the kukri swept in from the side. Han Sen employed the Scattering Petals in the Breeze, moving with deceptive speed to evade both attacks. He then unleashed the Northern Thunderclap, his right hand slamming into the bearded man's chest, while his left hand struck the kukri wielder’s stomach.

  Both bandits staggered backward, overwhelmed by intense pain. They sensed a power far beyond their own martial arts. Han Sen did not grant them respite. He unleashed the Dance of the Tiger in the Shadows, moving swiftly among them, striking with a combination of the Thunderclap Palm Deflecting Dragon and the Northern Thunderclap.

  The bearded man fought back, but his Phurba could not withstand Han Sen’s relentless strikes. He stumbled, feeling the pain drain his strength. The kukri wielder attempted to defend himself, but his blade could not anticipate Han Sen’s swift and precise attacks. He too fell to the ground, helpless.

  Han Sen stood tall, his wooden staff firmly held. His breath came in ragged gasps, yet his eyes burned with unwavering resolve. The Tibetan bandits lay prostrate upon the earth, defeated and powerless. The late afternoon wind stirred, carrying the scent of blood and sweat. The forest returned to silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves.

  Ouwyang Lu's movements were swift, his sword paralyzing the three robbers before quickly turning his attention to the ranks of their fallen men. Each slash struck its mark, severing tendons and shattering bones; no one escaped his wrath.

  "Stay here. I must hasten to Luoyang," he declared, his voice echoing across the clearing. "A garrison must be sent here. These men must be brought to justice." With that, he spurred his steed onward, towards the distant capital.

  Uncle Beng watched, his steps hesitant, utterly astonished by the display of power he had witnessed from Han Sen, a power he could never have imagined.

  “Sen-er,” he began, his voice laced with disbelief, “so, you truly have studied martial arts?”

  Han Sen answered weakly, “Yes, Uncle.” The truth settled upon his uncle like a heavy cloak.

  "Your master, that Taoist hermit… he merely taught tenets of faith?" his Uncle pressed on.

  “He is no ordinary man, Uncle. My master, Lou Siat, is a Taoist hermit, and… an immortal,” Han Sen replied.

  "An immortal?" the merchant's voice trembled. In his long life, he had never heard such a thing spoken.

  “And you… Are you now an immortal as well?” The question hung in the air, tinged with a burgeoning fear. What manner of being had he been travelling with all this time?

  Han Sen offered a rueful smile. “No, Uncle. I remain as I am, an ordinary man.”

  Yet, they both understood that Han Sen was anything but ordinary. Most men relied upon brute strength in conflict. Even within the soldiery, raw power was prized above all else, for the ranks were filled with farmers, men of little training or refinement.

  Few understood the subtle path of internal energy. Fewer still knew of the legendary saktis, those rare individuals said to possess abilities beyond mortal comprehension.

  Han Sen recognized the shift in his uncle's demeanor – the nascent fear that now clouded his gaze. He knew their easy camaraderie could no longer exist. Their paths were diverging.

  The wind continued its relentless journey, and Han Sen, too, must press onward.

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