The wind stretched across the steppe like a living thing, dry and relentless, whispering with the memory of ash and blood. It swept over crumbling cairns and bone-strewn grasslands, carrying the scent of forgotten battlefields and the echo of broken oaths. Above, the sky loomed vast and iron-colored, streaked with cirrus clouds that moved like faded banners fluttering above a buried empire. At the edge of a ridge, seated in silence upon an ancient altar of black stone, sat the one the wind could not forget.
Altan.
He sat cross-legged, still as a carved idol, breathing with the rhythm of Neijing Suilun—the Internal Spiral Wheel. It was a forgotten cultivation method once taught only within the sealed halls of the Grand Masters at Tuvayn Monastery. His qi did not flow in straight channels but rotated in spirals, pulsing outward from his dantian, syncing breath to blood, bone to spirit, until the body ceased to be many parts and became one living current.
The sigils on his forearms glimmered faintly beneath his weathered robes. They were not ink, but the branded result of the Fivefold Trials: crimson for fire, jade for earth, pale blue for water, silver-gray for wind, and ghost-white for spirit. Now, a sixth mark shimmered near his heart, glowing gold—the sign of Wujin Yihe Dao.
The Path of Eternal Harmony.
Unlike elemental styles which relied on domination or power, Wujin Yihe Dao held no fixed form. It flowed like water, turned like wind, blazed like fire when needed, and faded like silence. It was essence without ego, motion without aggression, force without malice. It did not seek victory, only balance. To fight within it was to fight without self.
Altan's eyes opened. His gaze stretched east, toward the far rim of the plains where the hills sloped gently beneath the breathless sky. Beyond that line, the Empire still lived—oblivious and rotting. It sang praises under golden banners, called his people rebels, burned their tents, salted their sacred earth, and slaughtered his kin to erase a lineage it never understood.
But lineage isn't only blood. It is vow, silence, and memory. And his remembered everything.
A vibration rippled beneath the wind—hooves, fast and staggered. Six riders appeared from the west, rough silhouettes across the ridge. They wore scavenged armor, crude weapons slung low, and rode heina-beasts: long-legged, bone-faced predators bred for speed and endurance. The creatures snarled through bared teeth, eyes flickering with uncanny intelligence.
The riders stank of hunger and fear, the scent of wolves forced to become jackals. Bandits. Men driven by ruin, not ambition.
One of them laughed. "Look there—some monk left his shrine open."
Another spat. "Let's send him to the gods. Maybe they'll forgive us for last spring."
Their leader, a brute with rings in his ears and a blade hacked down from an old cleaver, raised his arm. "Strip him. If he moves, break his legs."
They circled.
Chaghan
From behind the others came a man—twenty-five, steppe-born, lean as a reed but iron-eyed. His name was Chaghan. His hair was tied with rough twine, his armor cracked and second-hand. No elemental mark adorned him. No talent for fire, or water, or any of the five known flows. Among the others, he was nothing more than a warm body with a blade—bullied, mocked, kept around to make their numbers seem greater than they were. A veteran only in name, scarred more by survival than glory.
He stepped forward first, club in hand, moving with the empty confidence of someone trying to forget his place at the bottom.
His shadow crossed Altan.
Then, the silence broke—not with sound, but with movement.
Altan rose—not upward, but outward. A blur, a breath, a fracture in the moment. He did not strike. He flowed. A ribbon of robes, limbs, and spiraled qi. He stepped into Void Step, a technique from the fourth layer of Wujin Yihe Dao. It moved him not with speed, but with absence—slipping between awareness, thought, and form. In that space of unbeing, no weapon could find him.
His palm touched the nearest rider's chest—not hard, but perfectly placed. Xuan Yin Touch—a technique that resonated with the heartbeat, sending dissonant pulses through organs and qi nodes. The rider dropped, convulsing.
The next two reached for blades.
Too late.
Altan turned, robes sweeping like falling banners. His arms moved with the inevitability of wind changing direction. He didn't strike—he unraveled them. Redirected force into collapse. One sword snapped like brittle wood. A scream cut short as a throat imploded. A heina-beast reared, shrieking, and vanished into the haze.
The leader lunged.
Altan shifted into Heaven-Sink Spiral, accepting the man's full weight and returning it multiplied. The brute's spine twisted audibly. His scream didn't last.
Only one remained.
Chaghan stood frozen, eyes wide, breath shallow. His club hung limp in his hand. The wind had stilled. Altan stood among the dead, unblooded, his robe fluttering with quiet rhythm.
He turned toward Chaghan.
The man's voice cracked. "What… what do you want from me?"
Altan's voice was calm. "Your name."
"…Chaghan."
Altan studied him—steppe-born, eyes hard from loss, not cruelty. Scarred, yes. But not rotten. His spirit was dented, not broken. And behind the tired voice, a question trembled unspoken.
So Altan gave it voice.
"You wonder why I gave you mercy."
Chaghan flinched but nodded.
Altan turned toward the east, where distant stormclouds gathered. "Because you are the first."
"The first… what?"
He began walking. "To walk beside me."
Chaghan stood there, stunned. The wind pushed against his back, as if urging him forward.
"Where are we going?" he asked, catching up.
Altan's voice did not change. "To where the Empire breathes. So I may learn how to stop it."
They walked in silence for a time. Then, as thunder rolled low across the horizon, Chaghan asked the only question he had left.
"…What are you?"
Altan's eyes stayed on the plains ahead. "A student."
"A student of what?"
He turned slightly, letting the wind catch his robe like a rising wing.
"Vengeance."
Behind them, the steppe watched in silence. And far away, deep within the capital's veiled courts, an old name stirred among whispers.
Altan had returned.
And the blade was no longer sleeping.