𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐈
✦ 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓: 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐀 ✦
The morning mist clung to the jagged peaks of the Tateaori mountains like an ancient veil, obscuring the monastery from the world below. Perched at the edge of a craggy cliff, Tateaori Monastery stood in silent defiance of time, its weathered stone walls rising like the bones of a forgotten dragon. The wind, fierce and unforgiving, howled through the narrow valleys, but inside the monastery, the air was still—almost suffocatingly so.
In the dim light of dawn, a lone figure stirred on the narrow cot in a humble room that had seen countless mornings. The pale rays of the sun filtered through a small window, casting a soft glow on the stone floor, where the dust danced like forgotten spirits. Rin's eyes fluttered open, her dark brown irises reflecting the half-light of the new day. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded down the sides of her face, framing her sharp, cold features. She blinked slowly, as if awakening from a dream she had no desire to remember.
Her breath was steady, but the silence weighed heavily upon her, pressing down on her chest like the hand of a phantom. She had never grown used to the stillness of the monastery, the way it hung like a cloak around her shoulders, suffocating her every attempt at connection. There were other children, others who had arrived like her, abandoned to the care of the monks. But none of them—no one—understood the unspoken isolation that curled in her heart, like smoke rising from a dying fire.
Rin pushed herself up, her movements slow, deliberate—measured, like everything she did. She was never in a rush, never eager to meet the world outside her room. It was in this solitude that she found a semblance of peace, a way to escape the weight of the expectations that hung over her like a storm cloud. Expectations that, to her, were both a gift and a curse.
There was no time for daydreams here, not in a place like Tateaori. Outside the walls of her small chamber, the sounds of the monastery's daily rituals began to echo through the halls—the rhythmic clashing of wooden staffs, the deep-throated chants of the monks, and the unmistakable crack of stone against stone as they practiced the ancient ways. It was here, among these stones and prayers, that Rin had been raised.
Her gaze flickered to the far corner of the room, where a small shrine stood—its incense smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling, mingling with the ever-present dust of the monastery. The shrine was dedicated to the ancestors, to those who had walked these halls long before her, their faces carved into the dark wood with meticulous care. To them, she was nothing more than a shadow, a fleeting moment in a long line of warriors and monks, none of whom had ever known her name.
Rin rose from her cot and dressed swiftly, her motions precise and methodical. Her robes were simple, a dark blue fabric that clung to her slender frame. There was no need for adornment here, no need for the trappings of identity. She was Rin, and that was enough. She braided her hair with practiced ease, the strands twisting together like threads of fate, weaving a tapestry of solitude and purpose. When the braid was done, she cast a final glance at the shrine, as if seeking some unseen approval from the ancestors.
She stepped into the hallway, her feet soundless against the cold stone floor. The monastery was still dark, the shadows lingering in every corner as though the very walls held secrets that they were unwilling to share. As she passed the other rooms, she caught glimpses of the other children, but her gaze passed over them without pause. They were distractions, insignificant ripples in a pond she had long since learned to ignore.
The path to the training hall was narrow, winding through the inner courtyards, past the towering statues of warriors and sages. It was here that Rin had spent most of her life, training under the watchful eye of Tao Luoyang, the youngest of the monastery's masters and her reluctant guardian. He was a man of few words, his face as cold and unreadable as the stone that surrounded them. But beneath his stern exterior, Rin had come to recognize something—perhaps the only thing—he had ever given her: patience.
He had never once called her by name, never once praised her, but he had never scolded her either. Instead, he had watched. Watched as she threw herself into her training with a ferocity that could have matched any of the seasoned warriors of the monastery. It was the only way she knew how to exist in a world that demanded perfection at every turn.
And yet, despite all the discipline, all the hours of sweat and blood, Rin felt something stir in her heart—a whisper, a question that refused to be silenced. What was the point of it all? Why had she been brought to this place, raised by a man who was neither father nor friend, surrounded by others who would never understand her?
The answer had always been elusive, like the smoke that curled upward from the incense, dissipating before it could be captured.
As she reached the training hall, she saw him—Tao Luoyang. He stood at the center of the room, his posture rigid, his gray eyes scanning the space with a precision that mirrored Rin's own. His hair, dark as night, hung loosely at his shoulders, and his robes swirled around him like the shadows of the evening. He was the master of all he surveyed, his very presence commanding respect and obedience.
Tao Luoyang was a man of few words, but his silence spoke volumes. It was in his silence that Rin had learned to trust him, to follow his teachings without question. He did not speak of love, of affection, but there was something in the way he looked at her—a recognition, perhaps—that held her attention like a lock without a key.
"Rin." His voice broke through the stillness, low and calm. "You are late."
She did not flinch.
"I was preparing."
His gaze hardened, though his expression remained unchanged.
"We do not have time for preparation. We have only time for action."
Rin nodded, stepping onto the mat with the practiced grace of a dancer.
"I am ready."
Tao's gray eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he said nothing more. Instead, he moved to the side of the room, where a long line of weapons rested against the stone wall. He reached for one — a staff, polished to a gleaming sheen — and turned to face her.
"The time is coming." He said, his voice almost a whisper. "You must be prepared for what is to come."
Rin tilted her head slightly, her gaze narrowing.
"What is coming, Master?"
Tao did not answer immediately. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, as though searching for something.
"A new era." He finally said, his voice heavy with meaning. "The prophecy has been spoken, and we are all bound by it."
Rin's expression remained impassive, but within her, a flicker of doubt ignited.
"A prophecy..." She repeated, her voice laced with skepticism. "The Fire of Destiny? It has never been found. No one believes in it."
Tao's gaze softened, if only for a moment.
"The prophecy is not something that can be dismissed so easily, Rin. It is ancient. It is powerful. And it has chosen you."
Rin felt a coldness settle deep in her chest. The words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to grasp, but undeniable in their weight. She opened her mouth to speak, but Tao cut her off with a single gesture, his staff raised in a perfect arc.
"Let us begin."
The clack of Rin's bare feet against the polished stone echoed through the hall, the sound sharp and deliberate, like the rhythm of a ticking clock. She squared herself, eyes focused on Tao Luoyang, whose expression remained as unreadable as ever. The staff in his hands gleamed with a quiet menace, its length a silent reminder of his mastery. Rin took a deep breath, steadying her mind.
Her body was already attuned to the martial movements, each gesture honed over years of practice. But today, it felt different. Tao's words about the prophecy weighed on her, pressing down like the stones that held the monastery together. It was the first time he had ever spoken so plainly of it. Usually, the prophecy was a whisper, an idea barely uttered among the other monks. But Tao had not just mentioned it — he had placed it between them, a silent challenge.
She sank into her stance, the ancient form of the tiger. Her knees bent slightly, her body low to the ground, her hands poised with the grace of a predator preparing to strike. Every part of her was grounded, aware of the stone beneath her feet, the way her breath moved in and out of her lungs, the way her muscles coiled with tension.
Tao took his position in front of her, his staff poised. The air between them crackled with the quiet hum of anticipation, as though the very space around them recognized the gravity of the moment.
"Show me." Tao said, his voice calm, but with a subtle edge that suggested this would not be a routine practice.
Rin nodded once and sprang into motion, her body fluid and swift. Her feet barely touched the ground as she darted forward, a blur of energy and focus. She swept her arm out in a powerful arc, the movement a blend of strength and precision. Tao's staff met her strike with an audible crack, deflecting her blow with practiced ease.
But Rin was already moving again, shifting her weight and twisting her body as she flowed into the next series of movements. The tiger form was a dance, an expression of both power and restraint. Her hands struck and pulled back, each motion deliberate, each breath measured. She was a creature of instinct, a predator honed by years of training under Tao's watchful eye.
Tao's staff spun in the air, blocking her strikes with the effortless grace of someone who had mastered his own body and weapon. The sound of their movements—her strikes and his blocks—reverberated through the hall, creating a rhythm that was as ancient as the monastery itself.
Rin's heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm of her pulse matching the movement of her body. Her thoughts, always careful, always calculating, seemed to blur as she threw herself deeper into the practice. She could feel Tao's eyes on her, could sense his judgment even though his face remained impassive. There was something unnerving about the way he watched her—something more than the usual scrutiny. Today, his eyes seemed to pierce through her, searching for something she wasn't sure she could give.
She pressed on, pushing herself harder, faster. Sweat beaded on her brow, but she didn't pause. She couldn't. She had to prove herself, had to show that she was more than the quiet, cold girl who had spent years in this remote place. She had to show that she was worthy of whatever this prophecy was—that she could be the one who fulfilled it.
But the harder she fought, the more she felt the weight of Tao's gaze. It was as if the air itself was closing in on her, tightening around her chest. She had always prided herself on her control, on her ability to suppress the uncertainties that gnawed at her. But today, it felt as though something was slipping—something deep within her, a part of herself she had kept hidden, even from Tao.
With a sudden, sharp motion, Tao disarmed her, the staff knocking her hands away with a force that sent her stumbling backward. She caught herself, her feet sliding against the smooth floor as she righted herself. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling with the effort. For a moment, she stood there, catching her breath, her mind racing.
Tao was silent as always, his expression unreadable. He lowered his staff, his gray eyes fixed on her with a gaze that seemed to see right through her. The silence between them stretched long, until it felt as though the entire monastery had held its breath in anticipation.
"What is it, Rin?" Tao asked, his voice low but heavy with meaning. "What is it that you fear?"
Rin's eyes flickered, the question striking deeper than any blow could. She stood tall, but there was a flicker of doubt in her gaze, something that she couldn't push away. For the first time in years, the walls she had built around herself seemed to crack.
"I fear nothing." She replied, her voice steady, though her words felt hollow even to her.
Tao's eyes softened just slightly, a gesture so subtle it could have been a trick of the light.
"No, Rin." He said quietly. "You fear everything. And you fear nothing at the same time."
The weight of his words pressed down on her like a shroud. She wanted to argue, to deny it. But she knew, deep down, that he was right. The fear had always been there, buried deep beneath the surface—a fear of what she might become, of the power that lay dormant inside her, waiting to be unleashed. She feared what would happen if she allowed herself to acknowledge it.
And yet, she also feared the emptiness—the quiet, endless void that would swallow her if she did not embrace whatever destiny awaited her.
The prophecy, the Fire of Destiny, the title of Dancing Phoenix—it all felt so distant, so meaningless. Rin had always told herself that she was beyond such things. She had no need for titles, no need for grand destinies. All that mattered was control, discipline, mastery.
But now, with Tao's gaze upon her, she couldn't ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut. The prophecy was no longer something she could simply dismiss. The words echoed in her mind: The Fire of Destiny will find its way, and the Dancing Phoenix shall rise again.
It had always been a story, a legend, a myth. But now... now it felt too real.
Tao took a slow step toward her, the staff in his hand gently tapping the floor.
"You are ready for more than you think" He said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The prophecy is not something that can be denied. It is a part of you, Rin. Whether you acknowledge it or not, it lives inside you."
Rin felt the weight of his words settle deep into her bones, as if they had become a part of her very marrow. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, she simply nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. She had no answers, no clarity. Only the unsettling truth that the path ahead—whatever it was—would not be one she could walk alone.
✦✦✦
Rin wandered through the monastery grounds after training, her steps slow and deliberate. The weight of Tao's words lingered, circling her mind like a restless hawk.You are ready for more than you think. It wasn't a compliment—Tao didn't offer those. It was a statement, laden with meaning she couldn't grasp. Why had he said it? What did he mean by ready? Ready for what?
The air around her was thick with the sound of daily routines—the chants of monks in meditation, the rhythmic thud of practice strikes from the training courtyards, the distant hum of a prayer bell. Everything was as it had always been. Yet, to Rin, something felt... different. Off. The monastery was alive with movement, but beneath the surface, a shadow loomed, silent and heavy.
She stopped in the central courtyard, her gaze drawn to the enormous statue of a phoenix that dominated the space. The bird was carved from gleaming white stone, its wings spread wide as though poised to take flight. Its eyes, hollow and unseeing, seemed to bore into her. The Dancing Phoenix. A symbol of power, rebirth, and destiny. Rin had passed this statue countless times before, but today it seemed to watch her differently, its presence more imposing, its meaning less clear.
Her fingers brushed against the jade pendant she always wore—a simple, oval-shaped stone strung on a plain chain. It was the only thing she had from before the monastery, a trinket she had been found with as a baby. She had always thought it might hold answers to her past, but it had given her none. Just like the prophecy, it remained a puzzle, one she wasn't sure she wanted to solve.
The sound of voices drew her attention. Two monks stood near the eastern gate, their conversation hushed but urgent. Rin recognized them—Master Duàn and Master Chen, both elder monks with years of wisdom etched into their weathered faces. Normally, she would have passed by without a second thought, but something in their tone made her pause.
"I still can't believe it." Duàn said, his voice low. "The Dancing Phoenix... gone."
Chen nodded gravely, his hands clasped in front of him.
"It is a great loss. A tragedy for us all."
Rin's breath hitched. She pressed herself against the wall, straining to hear without being seen.
"And what now?" Duàn continued. "Without her, the Fire of Destiny—"
"Hush." Chen interrupted sharply, his eyes darting around. - This is not a matter to discuss openly. The masters are deliberating. Until then, we must remain silent.
The two monks moved away, their conversation reduced to murmurs Rin could no longer hear. But she didn't need to. Their words had already carved themselves into her mind.
The Dancing Phoenix... gone.
Rin stood frozen, her thoughts a storm of questions. The Dancing Phoenix was dead? How? When? Why had no one told her? The title was more than just a name; it was the living embodiment of the monastery's legacy, a role filled by a warrior said to wield the Fire of Destiny itself. The Dancing Phoenix was a figure of myth and legend, their existence a tether to the ancient prophecy that guided the monastery's teachings.
She turned abruptly and hurried away, her footsteps echoing in the stone corridors. The need for answers burned inside her like a flame, but where could she find them? She couldn't simply ask Tao. He would dismiss her questions with his usual stoic silence. And the other monks? They would likely do the same—or worse, scold her for prying into matters she wasn't meant to understand.
Her feet carried her to the library, a vast chamber filled with towering shelves of scrolls and books, their spines heavy with the weight of centuries. It was a place she had always found solace, a sanctuary of knowledge and quiet. Today, it felt different. The shadows seemed deeper, the air colder.
She moved through the aisles with purpose, her fingers skimming the spines of the scrolls until she found what she was looking for: The Chronicles of the Phoenix. It was a tome she had read before, its pages filled with stories of past Dancing Phoenixes, their deeds, their battles, their sacrifices. She pulled it from the shelf and sat cross-legged on the floor, the book resting on her lap.
The stories were as she remembered—accounts of warriors who had carried the title, each of them chosen to find the Fire of Destiny. But something nagged at her, a detail she had overlooked before. The book made no mention of how the title was passed on. It spoke of the Fire, of the trials, of the glory, but never of what happened when a Phoenix fell.
She flipped through the pages faster, searching for answers that weren't there. Her frustration grew, the silence of the library pressing down on her like a shroud. She closed the book with a sharp snap, the sound reverberating through the empty space.
"Looking for something?"
Rin jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. She turned to see a young monk standing in the doorway, his head shaved and his expression curious. He couldn't have been much older than her, perhaps twenty or twenty-one, with an easy smile that seemed out of place in the somber atmosphere of the monastery.
"I—" Rin hesitated, unsure how to respond. "I was... studying."
The monk raised an eyebrow.
"Studying the Phoenix, are you?" He stepped into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "You're not the only one."
Rin narrowed her eyes, unsure of his intentions.
"What do you mean?"
He chuckled softly.
"Everyone's been whispering about it. The death of the Phoenix. The prophecy. The Fire of Destiny. It's all anyone can think about, even if they won't admit it."
Rin stiffened.
"Why would they whisper about it? Shouldn't it be... announced? The Phoenix is supposed to be a symbol of strength. If she's gone—"
"Gone." The monk interrupted, his smile fading. "That's one way to put it. But it's not that simple, is it?"
Rin's gaze sharpened.
The monk shrugged, his eyes flickering with something she couldn't read.
"If you want answers, you won't find them in that book. But maybe you'll find them where the Phoenix last burned."
He turned and walked away, leaving Rin with more questions than she'd started with.
Where the Phoenix last burned. The words echoed in her mind, a riddle she couldn't yet solve. But she would. She had to. Because if the Phoenix was truly gone, and the prophecy was real, then everything she thought she knew was about to change.
The library's shadows deepened as the sun dipped below the mountain peaks, leaving the vast hall awash in the soft glow of candlelight. Rin sat cross-legged on the floor, the Chronicles of the Phoenix still open in her lap. The young monk's cryptic words gnawed at her thoughts. What had he meant by that? And why was everyone so afraid to speak openly about the Dancing Phoenix?
She turned another page, her eyes scanning the faded ink, but the words began to blur together. The stories of the past Phoenixes felt hollow now, their deeds grand but their lives strangely incomplete. One by one, their names passed before her eyes—heroines of the monastery, female warriors who had stood as symbols of hope. Yet, as she read, an unsettling pattern emerged.
There were no mentions of the Fire of Destiny being found, no clear accounts of the Phoenixes meeting this enigmatic force or person. Some of them had lived solitary lives, dedicating themselves to teaching or wandering the world, sharing their knowledge with those who sought it. Others had disappeared entirely, their fates unknown. The title of Dancing Phoenix, for all its grandeur, seemed more like a mantle of isolation than glory.
The Fire of Destiny... A person, not a force. That idea lingered in Rin's mind like a stubborn ember, refusing to be extinguished. If that were true, who was this person? Why had they eluded the Phoenixes of the past? And if the prophecy was wrong—if fate had faltered—what was the point of it all?
Rin closed the book and leaned back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. The weight of the monastery's expectations pressed against her chest, heavy and suffocating. She was the best of Tao's students, a prodigy in every sense of the word. But the more she thought about the title, the less it seemed like an honor and the more it felt like a burden.
And yet...
A glimmer of intrigue sparked in her thoughts. The Phoenix style. It was the monastery's most revered and secretive discipline, a martial art so rare that only a handful of warriors in history had ever mastered it. The Chronicles spoke of its grace and power—movements that mimicked the flight of a bird, strikes that combined speed and elegance, defenses that flowed like wind and fire. It was perfection itself, a form that demanded absolute control and harmony.
Rin felt her heartbeat quicken. For all her doubts about the prophecy, the idea of learning the Phoenix style was tantalizing. It wasn't about the title or the destiny; it was about the challenge. Mastering the Phoenix style would be the pinnacle of her training, a way to prove—to herself, if no one else—that she was more than just a name in the monastery's records.
But there was a catch, of course. The Phoenix style could only be learned by a Dancing Phoenix. If Rin wanted to learn it, she had to accept the title.
Rin frowned, her thoughts a whirlwind of contradictions. She didn't believe in the prophecy, not truly. She had seen the flaws in it, the gaps in its promises. The Phoenixes of the past were proof enough that fate was not infallible. And yet, the lure of the Phoenix style was undeniable.
She stood abruptly, the book slipping from her lap and landing with a soft thud on the floor. She couldn't sit here any longer, lost in her thoughts. She needed clarity, and there was only one person who could provide it.
✦✦✦
Tao Luoyang's chambers were as spartan as the man himself. A simple mat for sleeping, a low wooden table for tea, and a single scroll of calligraphy hung on the wall. The room exuded discipline and restraint, much like its occupant. Tao sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes closed in meditation.
Rin hesitated in the doorway, unsure if she should disturb him. But her frustration pushed her forward. She stepped inside, her presence breaking the stillness.
"Tao..." She said, her voice steady but laced with tension.
His eyes opened slowly, their gray depths unreadable. He didn't speak, waiting for her to continue.
"Why did you say those things to me earlier?" Rin asked, stepping closer. "About being ready. About the prophecy. You've never spoken to me like that before."
Tao regarded her for a long moment, his gaze unwavering.
"Because it is time for you to understand." He said finally. "The prophecy is not something you can ignore, Rin. Whether you believe in it or not, it has already begun to shape your path."
Rin clenched her fists.
"You think I should accept the title of Dancing Phoenix. But what if I don't want it? What if I think the prophecy is meaningless?"
Tao's expression didn't change.
"Do you think the prophecy is meaningless, or do you fear what it might demand of you?
The question struck a nerve. Rin's jaw tightened, but she refused to look away."
"I've read the stories." She said. "The Phoenixes who came before... they didn't find this 'Fire of Destiny.' They lived alone, wandered the world. Some of them vanished. If the prophecy is so important, why did it fail them?"
Tao's gaze softened, though his voice remained firm.
"The prophecy does not fail, Rin. People fail to understand it. The Fire of Destiny is not something to be found; it is something to be recognized. And not everyone has the strength to see it for what it is."
Rin's brow furrowed, the cryptic words only deepening her frustration.
"You're not answering my question."
"No." Tao said. "I am answering the question you have not yet asked."
His words hung in the air, their weight pressing against Rin's thoughts. She wanted to argue, to demand clarity, but the look in Tao's eyes stopped her. He wasn't hiding the truth from her—he was waiting for her to discover it on her own.
After a long silence, Tao spoke again.
"You are one of the most gifted students this monastery has ever seen, Rin. But your gifts alone are not enough. The Phoenix style is more than technique; it is a way of being. If you wish to master it, you must first confront yourself."
Rin's heart raced. The Phoenix style. The thought of it filled her with equal parts excitement and dread. It was within her reach, but only if she stepped onto a path she didn't fully trust.
She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening.
"Then teach me." She said. "Teach me the Phoenix style. I'll decide what the prophecy means for me."
Tao's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, a rare and fleeting expression.
"Very well." He said. "But remember, Rin—the path of the Phoenix is not one of perfection. It is one of transformation. And transformation always comes at a cost."
The sound of Tao Luoyang's measured footsteps receded down the corridor, leaving Rin alone in his room. His final glance before leaving was as cold and calculating as ever, a silent reminder of the immense weight of her decision. The room, so meticulously arranged, now felt like a puzzle inviting her to unlock its secrets.
Rin tried to remain still, but her curiosity clawed at her resolve. Her gaze drifted to the single cabinet on the far side of the room, its polished wood gleaming faintly in the dim light. She stood, the floor creaking softly beneath her, and approached the cabinet as if drawn by an invisible thread.
The door opened with a faint groan. Inside, nestled among scrolls and small trinkets, was a bottle unlike any she had ever seen. Its glass was thick and slightly clouded, and inside, coiled in death's stillness, was a viper. Its body floated languidly in the amber liquid, its dead eyes staring blankly through the glass. Rin's breath caught in her throat as a shiver ran down her spine.
Habushu.
She had heard whispers of this liquor before. It was said to be a concoction brewed by the masters, a hobby that bordered on taboo. The serpent, steeped in the alcohol, was meant to imbue the drink with vitality, courage, or perhaps something darker. Rin had never dared ask about it, but she had seen Tao drink from a similar bottle on rare occasions, his expression unreadable as he sipped the venom-laced brew.
She reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing the cool glass. The viper's lifeless gaze seemed to pierce her, filling her with unease. An unnecessary death, she thought, her stomach twisting. The creature's stillness felt like an accusation, a silent condemnation of the rituals and secrets that surrounded her.
Disgusted, Rin slammed the cabinet shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room. She turned away quickly, her heart pounding. Tao's stoic face flashed in her mind, and she resolved not to mention what she had found. This was a part of her master she didn't want to understand, a shadow she preferred to leave unexplored.
She left the room, the weight of her discovery pressing against her chest like a stone.
✦✦✦
The evening air was heavy with the scent of incense and the soft murmur of chants as Rin stood before the circle of elders. They sat in a semi-circle, their aged faces lit by the flickering glow of lanterns. Their expressions were calm, unreadable, as though carved from the same stone as the monastery's walls. At their center sat Tao Luoyang, his gaze cold and detached, the same gaze he had given her when he left her alone in his chambers.
Rin's heart pounded in her chest, but her face remained composed, her dark eyes steady. She had spent years perfecting the mask of control, a reflection of the discipline Tao demanded from her. But tonight, the stakes were higher than ever. This was not a test of her physical prowess, where she could rely on her skill and training. It was a test of her mind, her spirit, her very essence.
The elders began to speak, their voices weaving a solemn rhythm.
"Rin." Tao said, his voice steady and commanding. "Step forward."
She did as instructed, her footsteps echoing in the vast space. Her hands clenched at her sides, not out of fear, but determination. She had faced countless physical trials before, sparring with opponents twice her size, enduring grueling training sessions that pushed her body to its limits. But this was different. This was a test of the mind.
"Rin." intoned Master Zhao, the eldest of them all, his voice raspy. "The title of Dancing Phoenix is not bestowed lightly. It is a burden as much as it is an honor. Tonight, we seek to understand if you are prepared to bear it. Not with strength, but with truth."
Truth. The word lingered in the air like a challenge. Rin felt her stomach twist. She had spent so much of her life hiding pieces of herself—her doubts, her fears, her anger. Could she truly bare them here, in front of these unyielding judges?
Master Yuan leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as they settled on her.
"You must answer our questions honestly, without hesitation. Any deceit, any evasion, will disqualify you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master." Rin replied, her voice firm. She refused to let them see her uncertainty.
Yuan nodded, satisfied.
"Very well. Let us begin."
The questions started simply enough.
"What is your greatest strength?" Asked Master Zhao.
"My discipline." Rin answered without pause. "I do not falter in my training."
"And your greatest weakness?" Yuan followed.
Rin hesitated. Her first instinct was to say none, but she knew that wasn't the answer they wanted. She took a deep breath.
"I am slow to trust." She admitted. "And sometimes... I am too harsh on myself."
The elders exchanged glances, their expressions giving nothing away.
"What do you believe the title of Dancing Phoenix means?" asked another master, her voice soft but probing.
"It is a symbol." Rin said carefully. "Of strength, of guidance. But also of sacrifice."
"And do you believe you are worthy of it?"
Rin faltered. The weight of the question pressed against her chest, but she forced herself to speak.
"I don't know." She said finally. "But I am willing to try."
The elders murmured among themselves, their voices too low for her to hear. Tao remained silent, his eyes fixed on her, unreadable as ever.
The next question came from Master Zhao, and it struck like a thunderclap.
"What do you fear most, Rin?"
Her breath caught. The image of the habushu bottle flashed in her mind—the dead vipers floating in amber liquid, their empty eyes staring back at her. She thought of Tao's cold detachment, the side of him she didn't understand, the part of him she tried to ignore. And deeper still, beneath those fears, was something more primal. The fear of failure. The fear of being inadequate.
"I fear..." She hesitated, the words caught in her throat. "I fear being unworthy. Of letting my master down. Of failing to live up to what is expected of me."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Rin felt exposed, as though the elders could see straight into her soul. She fought the urge to look away, to retreat into herself.
Master Yuan's voice broke the stillness.
"Do you believe in the prophecy, Rin?"
The question pierced her like an arrow. She had wrestled with that question for so long, her doubts a constant shadow. But here, under their scrutiny, she couldn't lie.
"No." she said quietly. "I believe it is flawed. The Phoenixes of the past... they were not guided by the prophecy. They were guided by themselves. I don't believe destiny can choose for us."
Another murmur spread through the elders. This time, Tao spoke, his voice cutting through the air like steel.
"And yet you stand here, willing to claim the title the prophecy dictates. Why?"
Rin met his gaze, her own eyes burning with conviction.
"Because I want to learn. Not because of the prophecy, but because I want to master the Phoenix style. If that means taking the title, then so be it. I will make it my own."
The room fell silent once more. The elders leaned toward each other, their whispers blending with the crackle of the lantern flames. Rin stood motionless, her hands clasped behind her back, her heart pounding.
Finally, Master Zhao raised a hand, and the whispers ceased. He looked at Rin, his expression grave.
"We have weighed your answers, Rin. Your strengths and weaknesses, your doubts and convictions. The path ahead will not be easy. The title of Dancing Phoenix is more than a skill to be learned; it is a legacy to be carried."
He paused, his gaze piercing.
"But you have shown us honesty, resilience, and a willingness to confront yourself. These are the qualities of a true warrior. You have our blessing to begin the training."
Rin exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening. Relief mingled with apprehension. The elders had given their approval, but their words echoed in her mind. The path ahead will not be easy. Something touched her thoughts. Was the title really about answering questions? Just it? That simple? She couldn't believe it.
Tao rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Your training begins at dawn." He said, his tone as cold as ever. "Prepare yourself, Rin. The Phoenix style will demand everything from you—and more."
Rin nodded, assurance hardening in her chest. She had passed the test, but this was only the beginning. The title of Dancing Phoenix loomed before her, both a challenge and an enigma. And though doubts still lingered, one thing was certain: she would face whatever came next with everything she had.
✦✦✦
The morning sun rose above the peaks of the Tateaori mountains, casting long shadows over the monastery. The air was crisp and thin, laced with the scent of pine and stone. Rin stood in the training courtyard, her long black hair tied back into a braid that fell over her shoulder. The cold bit at her skin, but she ignored it, her focus entirely on Tao Luoyang, who stood before her with the same unrelenting composure he always wore.
Tao gestured for Rin to follow him, leading her to a secluded area of the monastery grounds. Here, the earth was scorched in patches, evidence of previous training sessions. A circle of smooth stones marked the boundaries of the training space, and in its center lay a blackened effigy—a practice target for the style.
"Do you remember what I taught you about CHI?" Tao asked.
"Yes, Master." Rin's voice was calm, but inside, her heart raced. "It is life energy. A force that flows through the body, connecting us to the world around us."
"Correct." Tao said, pacing slowly around her. "And what happens when CHI is focused, controlled?"
"It amplifies." Rin replied. "It can heal, or it can harm."
"Good." Tao stopped and turned to face her. "The Phoenix style draws upon CHI in its purest, most volatile form. It is not simply an extension of your strikes—it is an explosion of your will, your spirit, your very soul. Each attack burns not just your opponent, but a piece of yourself. You must master control over this fire."
Tao turned to Rin, his gray eyes narrowing.
"Your first lesson is understanding the flow of CHI. Without this foundation, the Phoenix style is nothing but reckless destruction."
As Rin's training progressed, Tao began to explain the deeper intricacies of CHI and its counterpart, KI.
"CHI and KI are two sides of the same coin" he told her. "CHI is the energy of creation, of nurturing and healing. Feminine. It flows with grace, like a river carving its path through the earth. KI, on the other hand, is the energy of destruction, of raw power. Masculine. It is a torrent, fierce and unrelenting."
Rin listened intently, her curiosity piqued. This concept sounded as if the execution of blows was dedicated only to warriors. Not female fighters.
"So KI is stronger?"
"No." Tao said firmly. "Strength lies not in the nature of the energy, but in the one who wields it. A warrior who understands their energy—be it CHI or KI—can achieve wonders. But a warrior who lets their energy control them is doomed."
He paused, his gaze softening slightly.
"You are fortunate, Rin. CHI is a gift. It can heal the wounds of others, mend what is broken. But in the Phoenix style, it becomes something more—a force of unparalleled destruction. That is why control is paramount."
Rin nodded, her resolve hardening. She would master this power, not because of the prophecy, but because she refused to let it master her.
"CHI," he said "flows like water, soothing. But when directed with precision, it can become as fierce as the tide."
"And KI?" Rin asked, her curiosity piqued again.
"KI is life energy in its aggressive form. It is fire, sharp and relentless. Men are often more attuned to KI, while women are naturally aligned with CHI. But both energies can be cultivated and shaped with practice."
Rin absorbed his words, her understanding of her own power deepening. She realized that the Phoenix style was not just about harnessing CHI; it was about merging its nurturing and destructive aspects into a harmonious whole.
He stepped forward, raising one hand. Rin watched as his KI flickered to life—a soft, golden glow that shimmered around his palm like sunlight on water. With a single, fluid motion, he thrust his hand forward. The glow surged outward, striking the effigy. The air crackled, and a faint scorch mark appeared on its surface.
"This is the starting point." Tao said, his voice calm. "Channel your CHI into your palm. Let it flow through your body like a river, steady and unbroken."
Rin nodded and closed her eyes, focusing inward. She felt the faint hum of her CHI, a gentle warmth that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Slowly, she extended her hand, willing the energy to gather. At first, nothing happened. Frustration pricked at her, but she pushed it aside, concentrating on the rhythm of her breath. Inhale, exhale. The warmth grew stronger, pooling in her palm. A faint, golden light flickered to life, trembling like a candle in the wind.
"Good." Tao said, his tone neutral. "Now, release it."
Rin thrust her hand forward. The light shot out, striking the effigy with a soft crackle. The mark it left was faint, barely visible, but it was there. Rin exhaled, a mix of relief and determination coursing through her.
"Again." Tao said. "Today, you will begin to understand the essence of the Phoenix style—not merely its techniques but its spirit."
Tao stepped back, his gray eyes fixed on hers.
"The Phoenix style requires more than physical skill. The fire you summon must obey you, or it will destroy you. Do you understand?"
Rin nodded, her expression determined.
"Yes, Master."
"Show me the basic strikes I taught you yesterday, but this time, focus on guiding your CHI through each movement. If you cannot channel it, the Phoenix style will remain beyond your reach."
Rin inhaled deeply, centering herself. She shifted into the starting stance, her feet grounded, her arms poised like the wings of a bird. With a sharp exhale, she struck out, her movements fluid and precise. But as she moved, she struggled to direct her CHI. The energy within her felt like a flickering flame, wild and untamed.
Tao watched her intently, his arms crossed.
"Your strikes are strong, but your energy is scattered. Focus, Rin. The fire is a part of you, not something separate. You must guide it as you would your breath."
She adjusted her stance and tried again, this time imagining the energy flowing from her core, down her arms, and into her strikes. It was an arduous process, each movement requiring immense concentration. By the time the sun reached its zenith, she was drenched in sweat, her muscles trembling from exertion.
"This is no ordinary style." Tao began, his voice low and steady. "The Phoenix technique is dangerous—not just to your enemies, but to yourself. Misused, it can turn on its wielder with deadly precision."
Rin nodded, her dark eyes fixed on her master. Despite her doubts about the prophecy, the allure of mastering such a powerful style was undeniable. It was more than a challenge; it was a test of her very essence.
The training became more grueling with each passing day. He guided her in the basics, showing her how to align her CHI with her movements, but the deeper mastery required solitary practice.
In the evenings, Rin would retreat to a secluded part of the monastery to train alone. There, she experimented with her CHI, learning to harness it in different forms. Sometimes it flickered like a spark, other times it pulsed like a wave. She discovered that her CHI responded not only to her physical movements but also to her emotions. When she was calm, the energy flowed smoothly, but when she let frustration or anger creep in, it became volatile, threatening to spiral out of control.
✦✦✦
One afternoon, Tao brought her to a tranquil stream that ran through the monastery grounds. The water sparkled in the sunlight, its gentle current a stark contrast to the intensity of her training.
"Why are we here, Master?" Rin asked, her brow furrowing.
Tao crouched by the water's edge and dipped his hand into the stream.
"The Phoenix style is not merely about fire. It is about balance. Fire alone is destructive, but when tempered with the principles of flow, it becomes a force of creation.
He gestured for her to sit, and she reluctantly obeyed.
"Close your eyes" he instructed. "Feel the water's movement. Imagine your CHI flowing like this stream—steady, controlled, yet powerful. This is the mindset you must carry into your training."
Rin closed her eyes, her senses attuned to the gentle sound of the water. She took a deep breath, letting the image of the stream guide her. As she practiced this mental exercise over the following days, she found that her CHI became more manageable. The flames she summoned were less erratic, their heat more precise.
In that night, after hours of practice, Rin managed to summon a small flame in her palm. It burned steadily, its heat warming her skin without harming her. A sense of triumph swelled within her, but it was short-lived. When she attempted to shape the flame into an attack, it flared wildly, scorching the ground before flickering out.
The memory of Tao's warning echoed in her mind: The fire must obey you, or it will destroy you.
✦✦✦
Days turned into weeks as Rin honed her control. Each morning began with the same grueling exercises: channeling, focusing, releasing. Tao watched her progress with the same stoic expression, offering corrections only when necessary. Despite his reserved nature, Rin began to sense a subtle shift in his demeanor—a flicker of approval, though he never voiced it.
As her control improved, Tao introduced the next phase of training: amplifying her strikes. This required not only precise control but also an unyielding focus. The Phoenix style demanded a balance between aggression and restraint—a balance that was as elusive as it was essential.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Rin stood before the effigy once more. Sweat dripped down her brow, her muscles aching from hours of practice. She closed her eyes, summoning her CHI. This time, she pushed harder, willing the energy to surge.
The light in her palm grew brighter, hotter, until it burned with a fierce intensity. She thrust her hand forward, and the energy exploded outward, striking the effigy with a resounding crack. Flames erupted on its surface, licking hungrily at the wood.
Rin stumbled back, her chest heaving. Her hand tingled with residual heat, but she felt no pain. For a moment, she stared at the burning effigy, a mix of awe and trepidation swirling within her.
"Well done." Tao said, his voice breaking the silence. "You are beginning to understand. But remember, Rin—the fire that does not scald you can still destroy you. Do not let it consume you."
Weeks turned into months, and Rin's mastery of the Phoenix style grew. She could now summon flames that danced along her arms without burning her, their heat an extension of her will. Her strikes became more precise, her energy flowing like the stream Tao had shown her. One evening, during a sparring session she executed a flawless Phoenix technique. Her strike ignited the air between them, the flames dissipating just before they reached him. Tao stepped back, a rare flicker of approval in his gray eyes.
"You have come far, Rin." he said. "But remember, this is only the beginning. The true test of a Dancing Phoenix is not in the training—it is in the fire of life itself."
Rin nodded, courage burning brighter than ever. She was ready to face whatever challenges came her way. Or at least that's what she believed.
However, there was always that one word that irritated her. The beginning. She wanted to be in the process. Not the beginning. She always felt like a hatchling under his strictness. Not like an independent avian.
✦✦✦
The snow came quietly at first, a soft cascade of white that fell over the peaks surrounding Tateaori Monastery. The flakes kissed the stone walls and tiled roofs, painting them in fleeting purity. But as the hours passed, the gentle snowfall turned fierce, a howling blizzard that swept through the mountains with unrelenting force. The wind carried with it a strange weight, as if something far more substantial than snow had arrived.
Rin felt it in the air, sharp and electric, as she moved through the courtyard. She'd spent the morning practicing her stances despite the biting cold. Her breath came in soft plumes as she shifted seamlessly between the forms of the tiger and crane, her body flowing like water in defiance of the storm. The snow swirled around her, each step crunching against the icy ground, but her concentration remained unbroken. She had long since learned to shut out discomfort and focus only on the movements.
Then the bell rang. Low and resonant, its sound reverberated through the monastery like a warning. Rin paused mid-motion, straightening and wiping a thin layer of snow from her brow. Visitors were rare in Tateaori, rarer still in the heart of winter. The bell's toll pulled her attention to the monastery's gates, where a dark figure emerged from the storm.
At first, he was little more than a shadow against the white fury of the blizzard. But as he stepped closer, his form became clear: a tall man wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak, the edges of which trailed along the snow. Beneath it, flashes of armor gleamed faintly in the dim light, hinting at a readiness for battle. His steps were deliberate, unhurried, and he moved with the surety of someone who belonged nowhere but wherever he chose to be.
The bell tolled again, this time faster, louder. Rin's heart quickened. The air grew heavier, the cold biting deeper as the figure approached. Around her, the masters and disciples began to gather, their murmurs hushed and tense. She caught fragments of their words:
"It can't be. Hayashida?"
The name meant nothing to Rin, but the way the masters' faces tightened with recognition sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the storm. She watched as Tao Luoyang emerged from the great hall, his presence silencing the murmurs like the stilling of wind before a thunderclap.
"Hideya Hayashida." Tao said, his voice carrying over the howling storm. His expression was unreadable, his gray eyes locked onto the approaching man. "What brings you to Tateaori?"
Hideya stopped just inside the gates, pulling back the hood of his cloak. His face was weathered, marked by deep lines that told of a life spent under harsh suns and colder moons. Yet his eyes burned with a vitality that belied his years, sharp and penetrating as they scanned the gathered monks before settling on Tao.
"Tao Luoyang." Hideya said, his tone almost cordial, though it carried an undercurrent of something darker. "It has been a long time, my friend."
The word "friend" hung in the air like a blade—sharp, pointed, and strangely out of place. Tao did not respond immediately. Rin could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands hung at his sides, deceptively relaxed but ready.
"Too long..." Tao said finally. His voice was calm, measured. "And yet not long enough."
Hideya's lips curled into a faint smile.
"Still the same as ever. Unyielding. Suspicious. - He took a step forward, and the masters behind Tao tensed. "But I am not here to rekindle old grievances. My purpose is far more important."
"And what purpose would that be?" Tao asked, his tone unchanging.
Hideya's gaze shifted then, falling squarely on Rin. She stiffened under the weight of it, her breath catching in her throat. The intensity in his eyes was unlike anything she had ever felt, as though he could see through her flesh to the very essence of her being.
"Her." Hideya said simply. "I have come for her. The Dancing Phoenix."
The courtyard fell deathly silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Rin's pulse quickened as she glanced at Tao, searching his face for answers. He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between her and Hideya.
"She is not ready." Tao said, his voice firm.
Hideya raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild amusement.
"Not ready? Or are you afraid?"
Tao's jaw tightened.
"Her training is incomplete. She is still learning to control the Phoenix flame.
"Control is learned through fire." Hideya countered, his tone almost dismissive. "Through challenge and adversity. You coddle her, Tao. She will learn nothing more here.
"And you think you can teach her?" Tao's voice was icy now, his calm beginning to crack.
"I know I can." Hideya said, stepping closer. "The chronicles I write are not mere words on parchment. They are the living histories of warriors who have transcended the limits of their art. I have studied the Phoenix style. I understand its demands, its dangers. I can guide her in ways you cannot."
Rin's stomach churned as she listened. Part of her was intrigued by Hideya's words, by the promise of something beyond the confines of the monastery. But there was an edge to him, a darkness that made her uneasy.
Tao's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Rin is not a prize to be claimed. Her path is her own, and she will walk it when she is ready."
Hideya's smile faded. His eyes hardened, and his voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone.
"Let me be clear, Tao. I did not come all this way to be refused. Either you allow her to come with me willingly, or I will take her by force."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The masters behind Tao exchanged uneasy glances, their hands inching toward their weapons. Rin's mind raced, caught between fear and uncertainty. She looked to Tao, seeking guidance, but his expression was like stone.
Finally, Hideya turned to her directly.
"What say you, Rin? Will you seize this opportunity, or will you let fear keep you shackled here?"
Her heart pounded as all eyes turned to her. She opened her mouth to speak but found the words stuck in her throat. The weight of the moment was crushing, and she felt like a leaf caught in the storm, powerless to resist its pull.
"Rin will stay." Tao said firmly, stepping in front of her once more. "She is not yours to take."
Hideya's smile returned, but it was cold now, devoid of any warmth.
"Let your little Phoenix speak. Let's give her the impression that she has any choice."
The blizzard howled louder, as if nature itself was amplifying the tension in the courtyard. Rin's gaze flickered between the two men, caught in a maelstrom of emotions she couldn't fully articulate. Tao stood resolute, a wall of unyielding calm in the face of Hideya's imposing presence.
Hideya's words echoed in her mind, tantalizing and unsettling. "She will learn nothing more here". The phrase danced in her thoughts, entwined with the promise of something more—freedom beyond the cloistered walls of Tateaori, knowledge that stretched beyond the bounds of her current understanding, and the chance to perfect the Phoenix Style under a master who claimed unparalleled expertise.
And yet...
Her eyes drifted to Tao, and memories surged forward unbidden. His stern face, softened in rare moments of camaraderie; his patient corrections during their training sessions; the evenings spent learning Japanese under his watchful eye. He had been more than a master—he had been a constant, a figure of stability in a life otherwise marked by uncertainty. The idea of leaving him behind struck a chord she didn't know existed, a sorrow that tightened her throat and burned at the edges of her resolve.
But then, there was the monastery itself, a place Rin had outgrown. The walls that once sheltered her now felt confining, the routines that once provided structure now felt stifling. She was a caged hawk, wings clipped by caution and tradition. Hideya's offer was a door, and though she sensed the danger behind his words, the thought of remaining behind—to stagnate, to always wonder what might have been—was an unbearable prospect.
Rin straightened, drawing in a breath that misted in the frigid air. Her voice, when it came, was steady, though it carried the weight of her inner conflict.
"I will go with him."
The courtyard erupted into chaos. The masters murmured among themselves, their faces a mix of shock and dismay. Tao turned to her sharply, his gray eyes wide with a rare flicker of betrayal. Rin met his gaze, willing herself to hold steady even as her chest tightened.
"Rin." Tao said, his voice low and urgent. "Do you understand what you're saying?"
"I do." She replied, her tone firm despite the tremor in her hands. "This isn't just about the Phoenix Style. It's about... more than that. I need to see what lies beyond these walls. I need to know what I'm capable of."
Tao's expression darkened, his jaw tightening.
"You don't know this man. You don't know what he's capable of."
"I know enough." Rin said, her voice softening. "And I know that staying here will only hold me back. I'm not a child anymore, Master Tao. You've taught me everything you can. Now, I need to find the rest on my own."
Tao opened his mouth to argue, but Hideya's voice cut through like a blade.
"Wise words from such a young warrior." He inclined his head toward Rin, his expression one of approval. "You have chosen well."
The blizzard raged, fierce and unrelenting, a tempest that seemed to mirror the storm within Rin's heart. Snow whipped across the courtyard, a chaotic dance of white that blurred the edges of the world, and yet everything in Rin's mind was painfully clear. The weight of her choice pressed down on her, heavy and unforgiving, but it was her choice, and she clung to that truth as if it were the only solid thing in the gale.
She stood before Tao, his figure stark against the swirling snow. He seemed unmoved by the storm, the folds of his robes fluttering in the wind like the wings of a great bird. His face, as always, was carved from stone—cold and unreadable—but Rin had spent enough years under his watchful eye to see the fracture lines beneath.
"I will go with him." She said again, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest.
Tao's eyes, gray and sharp as the winter sky, bore into hers. For a moment, the storm quieted between them, the silence filled with unspoken words. His hands, always so steady, curled into fists at his sides.
"This path is not one I would choose for you." He said, his tone low and measured, though Rin could hear the strain beneath it. "But it is yours to walk. If this is what you truly desire, I will not stand in your way."
His words were a release and a wound all at once. Rin nodded, her throat tight as she swallowed the surge of emotion threatening to escape. She had prepared herself for this moment, but now, standing on the precipice, she felt the sting of what she was leaving behind.
" Master Tao." she said softly, her voice almost lost in the wind. "Before I go... may I—"
Her breath hitched, and she hesitated.
"May I hug you?"
Tao's expression froze, and for a moment, he looked at her as though she had asked for something impossible. The air between them grew heavier, and Rin wondered if she had crossed a line she shouldn't have.
But then, something shifted. The rigidity in Tao's frame softened, ever so slightly, and the sharp edges of his expression dulled. He seemed to battle with himself, his gaze flickering with an emotion she couldn't name. Finally, with a long, slow breath, he nodded.
Rin stepped forward hesitantly, the cold biting at her as she closed the distance between them. She had never seen Tao embrace anyone, never imagined that he even could. And yet, as she wrapped her arms around him, he returned the gesture—awkwardly at first, but then with a quiet strength that felt like the closing of a circle.
His arms, strong and steady, enveloped her, and for the first time, she felt not the distance of a teacher but the warmth of someone who had cared for her in his own silent, stoic way. She pressed her face against the rough fabric of his robes, and in that moment, the storm seemed to fade. There was no snow, no wind—only the steady beat of his heart against hers and the weight of a bond she hadn't realized ran so deep.
"Thank you." she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she couldn't say. "For everything."
Tao's hand rested lightly on her shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.
"Do not forget what you have learned." He said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "And do not let the fire consume you."
They parted slowly, and Rin looked up at him, committing his face to memory—the lines etched by years of discipline, the silver strands in his hair, and the quiet strength in his eyes. She wanted to remember this moment forever, to carry it with her into whatever lay beyond the monastery's gates.
Hideya stood waiting at the edge of the courtyard, his figure barely visible through the swirling snow. Rin turned toward him, her steps deliberate, but just before she reached his side, she looked back.
Tao stood where she had left him, his form a silhouette against the blizzard. The storm began to swallow him, the snow falling heavier until he was little more than a shadow, then nothing at all. Rin's chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, she wanted to run back, to stay. But she didn't. She turned forward again, her decision a weight she carried with quiet resolve.
As she stepped through the monastery gates, the storm closed around her, erasing everything behind. From that moment on, Tao Luoyang's destiny in her story was to become a memory.