The cart wheel sank deep into the rut, groaning under the weight of salted vegetables and clay pots.

  The old man strained against it, face red, while his young daughter—perhaps twelve—pushed from behind with small hands.

  Han Sen paused, then stepped forward.

  “Where do you travel, lao ye?” he asked, voice calm as flowing water.

  The elder straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. “Tongzhou, young friend. Thank you for the aid.”

  Han Sen gripped the cart’s edge. Qi stirred subtly in his legs—Five Winds, gentle as a breeze. The wheel rose smoothly, mud falling away.

  The old man’s eyes widened.

  “Lao ye,” Han Sen said with a bow, “might this one join your journey?”

  “Do you head for Tongzhou as well?”

  “Indeed. I seek my fortune.”

  The elder laughed, belly shaking beneath simple robes. “Hahaha! Luoyang grows unkind these days. Virtuous officials replaced by tax-hungry wolves, and ill omens stalking the shadows. A hero saved us all—may heaven bless him.”

  He clapped Han Sen’s shoulder. “I am Kim Tun. This is my daughter, Kim In. Your strength saved our cart—come, walk with us to Tongzhou.”

  Han Sen bowed again. “I am Han Sen. Grateful for your kindness, lao ye.”

  “Hahaha, no need for such a ceremony. Come.”

  As the cart rumbled onward, pulled by a patient steed, Han Sen learned the old man’s tale.

  Kim Tun’s wife had been gone for four months. They had tried selling food in Luoyang—simple fare from his pots—but grief and taxes broke them. The new magistrate squeezed every coin; monsters whispered in the dark.

  Now he sold home and land, taking only cooking tools and dwindling stores, returning to ancestral roots in Tongzhou.

  “It was once Liwei Zhou,” Kim Tun said, voice warm with memory. “A small town cradled at Phoenix Mountain’s foot, valley wrapped in Zhou River’s embrace. You’ll like it, lad.”

  “Sounds beautiful, lao ye,” Han Sen replied.

  “And you? What trade do you seek?”

  “I aided a merchant once. I reckon numbers well.”

  “Hahaha! Perfect! Help me run my restaurant, then.”

  “With joy, lao ye. Thank you.”

  “Hahaha, no thanks needed.”

  The cart creaked along the winding road, horse patient beneath the sun.

  For Han Sen, adrift since the pagoda and Long Men Pai’s betrayal, this felt like heaven’s quiet guidance: A simple cart. A grieving father and daughter. A road to Tongzhou.

  Meanwhile, the clamor that had gripped Luoyang began to fade.

  Streets once choked with screams now echoed only with the slow return of daily life—vendors calling wares, children daring to play again, the wounded binding their hurts in silence.

  But in the cliff-carved halls of Long Men Pai, no peace reigned.

  The grand hall—its pillars carved with coiling dragons, its ceiling open to the mountain wind—stood filled with the heads of Luoyang’s martial world.

  Master Bu Sin Tong moved among them like a shadow host, receiving bows and clasped fists.

  From Heavenly Crane Gate came its white-robed master, crane feather in his hair.

  From Iron Sword Pavilion, the broad-shouldered lord of heavy blades.

  From Moon Shadow Hall, the sole woman among them—Master Yue Qing, her silver hair bound tight, eyes sharp as drawn steel.

  Smaller clans from across Henan filled the lower seats—dozens of sect leaders, faces etched with the same unspoken fear.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Bu Sin Tong began, voice carrying without effort to the highest rafters. “I thank you for answering the summons. The calamity that struck us demands words—and answers.”

  A murmur rippled through the hall.

  The master of a minor clan rose first, hands trembling. “Our sect stood upon the brink of annihilation. Those single-eyed horrors… they slaughtered without mercy.”

  “Where were the officials?” another growled. “Hiding behind walls while we bled.”

  “Hmph. Soldiers?” A scarred elder spat. “Useless as rusted iron.”

  Master Yue Qing’s voice cut clean through the anger. “Without timely aid, our elders would lie dead. Someone saved us. Yet no one saw his face.”

  All eyes turned to Bu Sin Tong.

  He stood motionless a moment, the weight of secrets pressing upon his shoulders.

  “Long Men Pai lost two of its three revered elders,” he said at last, voice low. “None among us witnessed our benefactor. The beasts fell like wheat before unseen wind.”

  Silence fell, thick as mountain mist.

  The Iron Sword Pavilion master leaned forward. “These creatures wield qi—late Qi Condensation at least. We have not reached such depth.”

  “Since An Lushan’s rebellion,” another sighed, “countless masters perished. The military watches our every breath. We are shadows of our ancestors.”

  A younger sect leader slammed a fist upon the table. “Emperor Daizong’s reign brings only heavier chains. Warlords grow fat while we starve for strength.”

  “And if the crimson swirls open again?” a voice cracked with fear. “What then?”

  Bu Sin Tong’s gaze swept the hall.

  “In Sui times,” he said slowly, “our forebears touched Soul Formation. Tales speak of men who walked the clouds, shattered mountains with a palm. We stand far below them.”

  Master Yue Qing rose, robes whispering like night wind.

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  “Then we must climb,” she said. “Seek the lost arts. Share what we find. Alone, we fall. Together… perhaps we rise.”

  Heads nodded—slow, grave.

  A pact was sworn beneath the dragon pillars: discoveries shared, strength rebuilt, survival sought.

  Hands clasped in solemn vow.

  Yet in every heart burned the same unspoken truth.

  Who, possessing true power, would willingly give it away?

  The race had begun—silent, ruthless.

  A competition cloaked in brotherhood.

  In a world where demons walked through crimson gates, only the strongest would endure.

  And Long Men Pai’s master stood at the center, bearing a secret heavier than any vow.

  The youth who had swept their floors—and vanished like morning mist— may have been the wind that saved them all.

  But Bu Sin Tong spoke no name.

  The gathering ended in clasped fists and forced smiles.

  Outside, the mountain wind moaned through the cliffs.

  Several days ago.

  Dust rose in faint clouds behind the weary travellers as Hong Cu, Siu Chen, and Auntie Peng reached the outskirts of Tuhe—a modest city cradled at the northern foot of Phoenix Mountain, in the province of Shennan.

  The road had been long, the silence heavier than any burden.

  At the edge of the settlement, Siu Chen halted beneath the shade of an ancient locust tree.

  “Auntie Peng,” she said softly, voice carrying the gentle weight of farewell, “you need not follow further. Your duty ends here.”

  Aunt Peng’s eyes filled, loyalty rooted deep as mountain pine.

  “But… Mistress, how can I leave you alone?”

  Siu Chen placed a hand upon the older woman’s sleeve, warmth steady despite her own weariness.

  “It is all right. Solitude is an old companion to me. I fear only that your presence would draw eyes—and danger—to us both.”

  “Mistress…”

  “Accept this,” Siu Chen said, opening her palm.

  Two taels of gold gleamed in the slanting light.

  “Guard it well. Live quietly. Live long.”

  Aunt Peng bowed low, tears tracing lines through road dust on her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Mistress. May heaven keep you safe.”

  “May it keep us all,” Siu Chen replied. “Whatever fate awaits me bears no tie to you. Speak of this to no one. Go now—find peace.”

  Aunt Peng bowed once more, deep and lingering, then turned her steps toward the familiar slopes that led to Tongzhou—a couple day’s ride along Phoenix Mountain’s flank. A quiet contentment settled upon her heart, warmed by the gold and by the memory of the woman she had served.

  Hong Cu urged the horse onward.

  They rode into Tuhe, procured swift mounts, and followed twisting mountain paths for three li until a simple dwelling appeared—wood and bamboo, large yet forsaken, veiled in vines and silence.

  They passed through the heavy, weathered gate.

  Within the courtyard, weeds had taken hold of the stones.

  Siu Chen turned to Hong Cu.

  She pressed a single tael of gold into his hand.

  “Hong Cu, ride to the market. Rice, salt, a little meat, spices—enough to make this place habitable.”

  “As you command, Mistress,” he answered, bowing before mounting once more.

  He rode back toward the city.

  Siu Chen watched until horse and rider vanished down the slope.

  Then she folded her long palace robes—shortening the hem with careful hands—and began to sweep the courtyard.

  Dust rose around her like faint memories.

  The mountain wind carried it away.

  She worked in silence, the only sound the whisper of broom against stone.

  A new life—simple, hidden—began beneath Phoenix Mountain’s watchful shadow.

  And far along the road to Tongzhou, a youth walked with a merchant and his daughter, carrying treasures no eye could see.

  The threads of fate, though distant, drew slowly tighter.

  The caravan halted abruptly, wheels groaning in protest.

  “What lies ahead?” Uncle Kim Tun called, voice edged with unease.

  The road stretched clogged—carts, horses, travellers—backed toward the distant hills like a river dammed.

  “Danger! Danger!” a boy cried, sprinting from the roadside, face pale as ash. “Demonic beasts attack ahead!”

  A woman in a nearby carriage gasped. “Demonic beasts?”

  “Fear not,” a calmer voice answered from the crowd. “Soldiers hold the line. They’ve closed the road to clear the fiends. Wait—it will pass.”

  Uncle Kim Tun rubbed his chin. “Let us rest in the field yonder. Perhaps supper while we wait.”

  Han Sen bowed slightly. “Forgive me, lao ye… a moment for personal need.”

  “Hahaha, go, lad. This delay will be long.”

  Han Sen smiled sheepishly and slipped toward the dense trees.

  The moment foliage swallowed him, he whispered the Art of Vanishing.

  Wind took him.

  He blurred forward—shadow across earth—until the soldiers’ line appeared.

  Spears bristled. Shields trembled.

  At their center roared a black panther—massive, eyes burning yellow, qi thick and vicious.

  A single sweep of its paw shattered shields, hurled men like leaves.

  It lunged, seeking the breach.

  Han Sen intercepted.

  Five Thunders Palm met midnight fur.

  KRAAK!

  The beast flew backward thirty zhang, crashing among broken trees.

  Han Sen landed as light as a falling leaf.

  The panther rose, snarling, fangs dripping shadow.

  He struck again—relentless palms, thunder veiled in silence.

  Organs ruptured.

  The creature fell.

  Dust rose where flesh had been.

  A jet-black stone gleamed upon the ground.

  Han Sen palmed it, then vanished deeper into the forest.

  A figure leapt beside him—scholar’s robes fluttering, movement swift as a crane in flight.

  Han Sen turned.

  The man landed gracefully, stylus spinning between fingers like a hidden blade.

  The road behind lay in ruin—overturned carts, blood upon earth, bodies of men, women, old and young, torn by claw and fang.

  Rage stirred cold in Han Sen’s chest.

  He struck first.

  Five Thunders rained.

  Heads shattered.

  Beasts dissolved to dust.

  The scholar matched him—stylus flashing, qi precise as calligraphy.

  Together, they carved a path through twenty more.

  Han Sen’s eyes traced the trail—qi thick as blood leading deeper.

  Without a word, they pressed on.

  Two hours through shadowed undergrowth brought them to a clearing.

  There swirled the crimson vortex—taller than a man, edges flickering like fresh wounds.

  Han Sen stepped forward.

  The scholar followed.

  Light swallowed them.

  They emerged in a primeval forest—canopy thick as night, ground in perpetual twilight.

  Five black panthers dropped from branches.

  Han Sen flowed.

  The scholar spun.

  Twelve more descended—tide of fang and claw.

  They fought back to back—thunder and stylus weaving death.

  Beasts fell.

  Dust rose.

  The cavern mouth loomed ahead.

  “The lair lies within,” Han Sen said, voice low.

  “I am indebted, brother,” the scholar replied, bowing slightly. “Yan Lok is my name.”

  “Han Sen. Brother Yan—are you ready?”

  Yan Lok’s eyes burned resolutely.

  No more words.

  Han Sen plunged into darkness.

  Yan Lok followed.

  The cavern swallowed them—vast, echoing—until faint light pierced from holes high above.

  At its heart waited the lord.

  A colossal black panther—fangs like ivory swords, eyes twin yellow suns.

  It grinned.

  The dragon and the scholar stood side by side.

  And the final battle began.

  Truth revealed itself in two sharp strokes.

  First: the colossal black panther before them brimmed with qi deeper than Han Sen’s own—vast, savage, a storm barely contained in midnight fur.

  Second: Yan Lok, the scholar he had met only moments ago, carried the steady lake of Foundation Establishment within him—power equal to Han Sen’s, as the Long Men elder had once foretold in trembling voice.

  They moved as one.

  Lightness skill unfolded—feet barely brushing stone, bodies rising like mist.

  Palms and stylus struck in harmony.

  The panther answered with fury.

  Claws raked Han Sen’s back—twice—fire across flesh, blood warm upon his robes.

  Yan Lok took a slash across the shoulder, robes tearing, skin parting.

  Yet with every heartbeat, their rhythm tightened.

  Breath synced.

  Strikes found rhythm.

  Han Sen’s fist crashed down upon the beast’s skull.

  Yan Lok’s iron stylus pierced its throat.

  The panther shuddered—mighty frame trembling like a mountain before an avalanche.

  Then it crumbled.

  Dust rose where flesh had been.

  Upon the stone lay three treasures untouched by battle: a delicate folding fan of white jade and silk, a simple silver ring etched with faint runes, and a large obsidian sphere that drank the cavern’s dim light.

  Han Sen gathered them.

  White light flared—blinding, familiar.

  When it faded, they stood once more in the shadowed forest.

  Black stones littered the ground—remnants of slain panthers.

  Han Sen gathered them all, dividing evenly.

  “Brother Yan,” he said, offering half. “These are yours by right.”

  He pressed the fan and ring into Yan Lok’s hand.

  “What manner of stones are these?” Yan Lok asked, turning one in his palm.

  “I do not know,” Han Sen replied. “But time may reveal their use.”

  “Brother Han… this fan, this ring—”

  “Keep them. Your first venture into the crimson gate deserves its reward.”

  Yan Lok bowed, gratitude deep in his eyes. “My first time drawn within. I owe you my life.”

  Han Sen clasped his forearm. “Speak no debt. Facing that beast alone would have been perilous. Your aid was heaven-sent.”

  They gripped hands—brief, firm—then parted like wind through leaves.

  Han Sen vanished into the shadows, racing back along hidden paths.

  The caravan still waited.

  Soldiers labored three more hours to clear the road.

  When the carts rolled forward again, only bloodstains upon stone remained—a silent witness to the slaughter.

  The crimson vortices bloomed across the land like malignant flowers.

  And from hidden sects and distant mountains, martial artists of growing skill began to stir—drawn by whispers of battle, by tales of strange treasures, by the promise of power born from chaos.

  The age of demons had come.

  And with it, the age of those who would hunt them.

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