The bonfire crackled softly under the vast night sky, its golden flames dancing like restless spirits, casting flickering shadows upon the faces of the three gathered around it. The air carried the rich aroma of roasted meat and wild herbs, a fragrance that seemed to weave itself into the quiet rhythm of the wilderness.

  Uncle Kim Tun was indeed a master of the culinary arts.

  “Father always manages to conjure the most exquisite flavors, even from the humblest of provisions,” Kim In said, her voice warm with filial pride as she accepted a steaming bowl.

  “Hahaha,” Kim Tun laughed heartily, his broad shoulders shaking as he ladled portions for each. “This old man honed his craft in youth. Of what use is peerless martial prowess if one cannot savor a fine meal? In the end, it is this father who feeds the family, is it not?”

  To hear a daughter speak such words of her sire was a joy beyond measure.

  Kim Tun settled cross-legged upon a fallen log, passing the fragrant dishes around the fire. He was a man fond of tales, and the flames seemed to coax the stories from his lips.

  “I am the second of four siblings,” he began, his gaze drifting into the embers as though seeing distant memories. “My honored father was a wanderer of the jianghu who had withdrawn from the world to dwell in Tongzhou—a place of serene beauty, yet solitary as a hidden immortal’s grotto.”

  “Your esteemed father was a martial artist?” Han Sen’s eyes brightened, his curiosity stirred like a blade drawn from its sheath.

  “Hahaha, indeed, indeed. My father was no ordinary pugilist. He was the sole inheritor of the divine God’s Palm lineage, passed down since the days of the Sui Dynasty—a legacy steeped in profound mystery.”

  “Then surely the elder possessed inner energy, having mastered the circulation of qi,” Han Sen ventured, leaning closer to the fire.

  “Oh? The young hero knows of qi?” Kim Tun’s laughter rang again, rich and approving. “Truly a discerning youth! My father did not merely understand qi—his cultivation had reached the exalted realm of Nascent Soul.”

  “Extraordinary… truly extraordinary,” Han Sen murmured, clapping his hands in unguarded wonder, the youthful thrill of a marvelous tale coursing through his veins like fresh wine.

  “Hahaha, yes… Among my four siblings, three were born with meridians of rare purity. My youngest brother even possessed the legendary Twelve River Meridians Converging Upon the Sea—an endowment most heavenly. Alas… this one was born without a single meridian to his name.”

  Yet Kim In would not allow such words to pass unchallenged. “But Father excels in the kitchen and in countless other skills! Father’s dishes are without peer!”

  “Hahaha, indeed, indeed. Since I could not guide qi through my vessels, what purpose would studying martial techniques serve? Better to master the cleaver for carving fowl than for spilling blood. Young hero Han Sen, do you see? From afar, the world reveres my house as a clan of unrivaled martial artists. Yet I alone know the truth: my father and siblings are so consumed by the pursuit of the dao of fist and palm that they are utterly helpless before a cooking pot. My mother, who learned her craft from the imperial kitchens of old, passed the culinary dao to me. From childhood, they all depended upon my humble meals.”

  “And yet Uncle journeyed to Luoyang?” Han Sen pressed gently.

  “Ahh… as the years passed, my affliction grew heavier upon me. To one unable to cultivate, the study of martial arts invites only calamity—others perceive such a one as the clan’s fatal weakness. I was forbidden to venture beyond the gates, confined like a bird in a gilded cage. Naturally, this old man’s heart rebelled. Thus, I departed for the eastern capital, Luoyang, to seek my own path, and there established my restaurant.”

  “And now?”

  “Hmm… My father vanished from the world even before In-er drew her first breath. As for my elder siblings… they became entangled in the great rebellion of General An Lushan. Sigh.”

  “Were Uncle’s siblings mighty experts of the jianghu?” Han Sen asked.

  “Oh, most assuredly. Each had attained Foundation Establishment. I even suspect my youngest brother had condensed a Golden Core—he was a genius seldom seen beneath the heavens.”

  “Do they yet reside in Tongzhou?”

  “No, no. Long ago, they departed those quiet hills. Only my mother’s kin remain, and they know nothing of martial ways—merely the lineage of palace chefs from generations past. Thus, among us all, only this unworthy one became a true merchant of the mortal world, crafting delights with these two hands, bringing joy to countless mouths and hearts.”

  “Those who wield peerless strength quarrel endlessly, entangle themselves in rebellions, and slay one another without cease. In the end, they flee, they hide—what meaning is there in such an existence?”

  Hearing these words, a profound respect welled in Han Sen’s heart. This man had been born with what the world would deem a grievous flaw—vessels barren of qi. Yet in his quiet recounting, another truth shone forth.

  Perhaps, of the four siblings, only Uncle Kim Tun had truly become a creator. And he, in his humble wisdom, knew this full well.

  “Then… does Uncle hold no fondness for the martial dao?”

  “Hahaha! Who claims this old man harbors no love for it? Of course, I cherish it deeply! Yet I could only study the scrolls, pore over the ancient manuals—I never set foot upon the path of true practice, for the gates of heaven were closed to me from birth.”

  The bonfire’s flames leaped higher for a moment, as though stirred by an unseen wind, painting the faces of the three travelers in hues of amber and shadow. The night air carried the lingering scent of roasted game and wild mountain herbs, a testament to Uncle Kim Tun’s unmatched skill.

  “Uncle,” Han Sen ventured at last, his voice laced with the sincere thirst of youth, “how does one discern the true depths of another’s martial prowess?”

  The elder threw back his head and laughed, a deep, resonant sound that rolled through the darkness like distant thunder. “Hahaha… For a common mortal, how could one hope to perceive such mysteries? Even those who have only begun to tread the path—merely tempering flesh and bone—remain blind to the profound distinctions.”

  “Then how do the cultivators themselves distinguish one realm from another?” Han Sen pressed, leaning forward, eyes reflecting the fire’s glow.

  “Hahaha… That is simple, young hero Han Sen. Simple, yet profound.” Kim Tun’s gaze drifted to the dancing flames, as though tracing ancient characters written in smoke. “The stages are not like the rigid storeys of a tower—one above the other, plainly counted. No, they are realms of transformation, each a heaven apart from the last.

  “First, when a cultivator awakens and draws the qi of heaven and earth into the dantian, guiding it through the meridians—that is Qi Condensation.

  “When the qi gathers and condenses into an inner sea, vast and inexhaustible, laying an unshakable base—that is Foundation Establishment.

  “Within that sea, a golden core crystallizes, a radiant nexus of pure power—that is Core Formation.

  “Then the core shatters, giving birth to a nascent spirit, an infant soul seated upon the inner sea—that is Nascent Soul.

  “When that nascent spirit grows distinct, manifesting a true ethereal form within the dantian—that is Soul Formation.

  “As the soul refines itself further, undergoing nine profound transformations, gaining substance and might—that is Soul Transformation.

  “And finally, when body and divine soul perfectly unite, shedding all mortal shackles, ascending beyond the tribulations of heaven and earth—that is Ascension, the gateway to immortality.”

  Han Sen listened in rapt silence, the weight of such lofty realms pressing upon his young heart like distant thunderclouds. At length, he murmured, “Uncle… does it not grieve you that such gates are forever closed to you?”

  Kim Tun’s laughter faded into a gentle, knowing smile. “Grieve me? Hahaha… What grief is there to bear? This old man has a dutiful daughter whose beauty rivals the moon and stars. I am blessed beyond measure. With these hands, I craft dishes that bring light to weary travelers’ eyes and warmth to their hearts. I am content.”

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  He gestured to the spread of food before them—succulent meat glistening in the firelight, fragrant steam curling upward like offerings to the heavens—a quiet pride gleaming in his weathered eyes.

  “At some point, young one, these simple joys become enough. And then, when the allotted years draw to a close, one returns peacefully to the yellow earth. What meaning lies in pursuing an endless span in a world steeped in injustice and strife?”

  “Yet many yearn for a life without end,” Han Sen replied, the fire of youthful ambition still burning bright within him.

  “Oh, indeed, indeed,” Kim Tun chuckled softly. “They savor my cooking today and dream of savoring it for ten thousand years hence.” His tone grew contemplative as he leaned closer, the fire’s glow carving deep lines upon his face. “But listen well, Han Sen. Even the rarest delicacies, tasted without cease, grow wearisome in time. That is why this old man forever seeks new flavors, new harmonies of spice and fire—to awaken the tongue anew.

  “Consider those who reach Foundation Establishment and beyond. They sustain themselves upon pure qi alone, forsaking grain and wine. Their lifespan stretches across centuries, yes… but can they still truly relish the profound joy of a perfectly seasoned dish? And those who linger into extreme old age, even without cultivation—teeth fallen, palate dulled, appetite vanished—tell me, young hero, what value remains in such prolonged days?”

  He fixed Han Sen with a steady, solemn gaze across the flickering flames.

  “An excessively long life may become its own curse, child. Remember this truth well.”

  The bonfire burned low, its flames swaying like drunken immortals, casting long, wavering shadows across the clearing. The three travelers had finished their meal, the lingering warmth of Uncle Kim Tun’s cooking still comforting their bellies as the night deepened.

  “Uncle,” Han Sen said softly, a thread of hesitation woven into his voice, “this junior also treads the martial path. From boyhood, I trained under a reclusive immortal hermit.” He feared his confession might dim the elder’s cheerful spirit, as it once had with Uncle Hok Si Beng, who had shrunken from the fierce power coiled within him.

  “What?” Kim Tun’s eyes lit up like stars breaking through cloud. “You cultivate the dao of fist and palm? Hahaha! Splendid, truly splendid! It gladdens this old heart to sit once more among wanderers of the jianghu!”

  Seeing only sincere delight in the elder’s weathered face, Han Sen let the words flow freely from his heart. He spoke without reservation—of his humble beginnings in Baihe Village, of the merciless trials within the Pagoda, of the profound mysteries he had glimpsed in the Long Meng Pai. Each tale unfolded like scrolls of ancient legend beneath the watchful night sky.

  Kim Tun listened in silent rapture, his expression shifting from wonder to awe as the extraordinary saga unfolded.

  “Your journey… it is beyond the common lot,” he murmured at last, voice low with reverence. “Tell me, young hero—what is it truly like to endure the Zhu Que Fire?”

  “Argh…” Han Sen shuddered, the phantom heat searing his memory anew. “Utterly wretched. Beyond miserable!”

  “Hahaha… good, good!”

  “Good?” Han Sen stared in disbelief. “It was torment beyond words!”

  “Good that you speak the truth plainly,” Kim Tun replied, a wry smile creasing his face. “I once had a boastful senior brother who claimed the flames were naught but a gentle breeze. Yet I saw him weep bitter tears through the ordeal, his pride crumbling like ash. With my own eyes, I witnessed it.”

  A faint, rueful smile touched Han Sen’s lips. Was there truly glory in enduring a trial one had not sought? He had simply borne it, step by agonizing step, drawing upon every shred of will to press forward.

  “This is a lesson my honored father once bestowed upon me,” Kim Tun continued, gazing into the dying embers. “He taught that we should take pride only in what we create with our own hands and heart—not in what fate bestows at birth.

  “To be born with the Twelve Meridians Converging Upon the Sea… that lies beyond our choosing. To be born without a single meridian, as I was… that too is heaven’s decree.

  “If we cannot choose it, young one, wherein lies the pride?”

  Han Sen felt the words settle deeply within him. “Then enduring the Zhu Que Fire… that also was no choice of mine.”

  “Precisely. To be plunged into such tribulation is misfortune, nothing more. There is no honor in merely suffering what fate forces upon us. But the manner in which you endured—the resolve you forged, the spirit you tempered—that was your creation. In that alone may you take true pride. Thus, my father taught me.”

  With a companionable nudge of his broad shoulder against Han Sen’s, Kim Tun grinned, the firelight glinting in his eyes like hidden merriment.

  Warmth spread through Han Sen’s chest, genuine and unforced. Smiling softly, he reached into his sleeve and drew forth a stone of deepest crimson veined with flowing silver—a trophy claimed from the fallen one-eyed Monster King.

  “Ha!” Kim Tun’s breath caught. “A Sky Stone!”

  “A Sky Stone?” Han Sen echoed, turning the gem in his palm.

  “Indeed. My father once held such a treasure. He told me that when the heavens permit a demonic sovereign to cloak the world in shadow and chaos, a hero inevitably rises to uphold justice. Upon that hero’s triumph, the heavens bestow a Sky Stone—embodiment of righteousness, a testament to the tribulation endured in vanquishing the darkness wrought by the demon.”

  With quiet reverence, Han Sen returned the stone to his qiankun pouch. He shifted upon the grass, assuming the Lotus Position, ready to sink into meditation and circulate both the Great Heavenly Cycle and the Lesser Heavenly Cycle.

  Yet before he could settle his breath, Kim Tun’s heavy hand clapped gently upon his shoulder.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  “Han Sen,” the elder asked, brow arched in mild puzzlement, “you say you have already formed an inner sea of qi—the mark of Foundation Establishment?”

  “Yes, Uncle. That is correct.”

  “Then why, child, do you still cultivate as though you lingered in Qi Condensation?”

  Han Sen froze, the question striking him like a sudden bell in the stillness.

  Why indeed…

  He had continued exactly as his master had taught him, never deviating from the familiar cycles. Yet his revered teacher had ascended to the immortal realms all too swiftly, departing before higher mysteries could be imparted—leaving his disciple adrift, with no guidance for the path that now lay open before him.

  The bonfire had dwindled to a bed of glowing embers, its crimson heart pulsing faintly beneath a veil of ash. The vast wilderness lay shrouded in moonless dark, the stars above veiled by drifting clouds, as though heaven itself withheld its light.

  Han Sen abandoned his intended meditation, a long-buried memory rising unbidden from the depths of his mind—a bronze amulet etched with coiling clouds, tucked safely within his qiankun pouch. His hand moved of its own accord, fingers closing around the cool metal, drawing forth a relic that had lain silent through many days.

  In the utter blackness of the night, the amulet awakened with a subtle emerald radiance, soft as ghost-fire yet piercing the gloom. Han Sen turned it slowly in his palm, tracing the ancient carvings: swirling clouds that seemed to drift across the bronze surface like mist over distant peaks. On the reverse, he found the hidden recess—a shallow hollow, patiently awaiting its destined key.

  From the pouch, he drew a single emerald gem, wrested long ago from the lair of colossal lizards in the wilds of Baihe. It rested in his hand like captured starlight, verdant flames dancing within its facets.

  With reverent care, he seated the gem into the amulet’s waiting cavity. For a breathless moment—nothing. No thunder of heaven, no burst of divine radiance; only silence.

  Then, gathering his intent, Han Sen guided a thread of qi into the bronze. The response was immediate: a torrent of energy surged into the emerald, and from its heart a slender beam of verdant light rose, steady and true, to touch the space between his brows.

  In that instant, golden characters blossomed within his sea of consciousness, solemn and profound:

  The Way of Cloud and Wave

  Understanding flooded him like dawn breaking over mountains. This was no common manual—it was a supreme breathing technique, perfectly attuned to the Foundation Establishment realm, the cornerstone upon which all greater cultivation must stand.

  A fleeting vision unfolded before his inner eye: an ancient master seated in serene meditation, his presence as tranquil as still water, yet vast as the ocean. In that glimpse, Han Sen beheld the most refined method of breath regulation for his current stage—an art of flowing like clouds, rising and falling like waves, drawing heaven and earth qi into his inner sea with effortless grace.

  The vision faded as swiftly as it had come. Han Sen opened his eyes, a faint tremor of wonder passing through him. He turned the amulet over; the recess lay empty once more, the emerald’s essence wholly spent.

  Without hesitation, he fitted a second gem into place.

  Each stone, he now knew, would sustain the transmission for only a quarter of an hour. To truly grasp the profundity of the Way of Cloud and Wave—to etch its rhythms into his bones—he would need many such gems to carry him through the long watches of the night.

  Uncle Kim Tun and Kim In slumbered peacefully nearby, their breaths steady in the quiet dark, unaware of the quiet miracle unfolding mere paces away.

  Han Sen assumed the Lotus Position once more, spine straight as a pine, hands resting lightly upon his knees. He closed his eyes and began to circulate qi according to the newly revealed dao: inhaling like mist gathering upon mountain peaks, exhaling like waves retreating across endless shores.

  The night deepened, yet within his dantian, a silent storm of progress raged. In that single span beneath the hidden stars, his Foundation Establishment advanced with astonishing swiftness—his inner sea growing broader, deeper, more inexhaustible—carried forward upon clouds and waves that only he could perceive.

  As the first fingers of dawn crept across the horizon, the sky bloomed with molten gold and rose, scattering the lingering shadows of night. The air carried the crisp promise of a new day, dew glistening upon the grass like scattered jade.

  Han Sen rose silently and turned eastward, facing the ascending sun. Its radiant light bathed him in warmth, a golden cascade that seemed to pierce flesh and bone alike. With graceful poise, he continued to breathe through the forms of the Way of Cloud and Wave—his breath flowing like mist over tranquil peaks, his chest undulating as gentle swells upon an endless sea. He drew deeply upon the vast qi of heaven and earth, allowing it to permeate his meridians, merging seamlessly with the inner sea that churned within his dantian. This was no fierce cultivation, but a serene communion—a quiet harmony with the subtle currents of the cosmos.

  “Han Sen! Are you awake, young man?” Uncle Kim Tun’s voice rang out, rich with the boundless cheer of morning, echoing from beside the waiting cart.

  “Ready, Uncle!” Han Sen called back, a genuine smile lighting his features as he concluded his practice.

  “Then come! The road calls us onward. To Tongzhou—we shall forge a new home, raise a new restaurant worthy of the name!”

  “Let us set forth, Uncle!”

  And so the three travelers departed, their steps light upon the ancient road, hearts unburdened despite the long miles that lay ahead. The morning sun climbed steadily behind them, gilding the path to Tongzhou in hopeful light, as though the heavens themselves blessed their humble journey.

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