The morning sun rose clear and mild, light spilling through the narrow window of Han Sen’s chamber.

  He left the inn early, drawn once more to the small Jingjiao monastery in the western ward.

  Priest Yisi greeted him at the gate—simple robe, purple sash catching the light, smile warm as yesterday’s tea.

  They sat again in the quiet hall.

  Conversation flowed easily—weather, the city’s moods, small kindnesses seen in the streets.

  Yet Han Sen had come with a purpose.

  He had overheard whispers at the inn: Yisi, the foreign priest, wore the purple kā?āya bestowed by the Emperor himself and held the rank of Guanglu Daifu—high honor in the imperial court.

  A man who had once ridden with General Guo Ziyi.

  A warrior turned shepherd of souls.

  How could such a one speak so freely, so warmly, with an unknown youth?

  The question burned.

  At length, Han Sen bowed his head.

  “Venerable sir, a matter troubles me. May I speak plainly?”

  Yisi’s eyes invited.

  “Always.”

  “I have… seen the palace from within. All seek favor. Maids know the secrets of ministers’ shame. Officials trade justice for gold.

  Is this not corruption?”

  He paused, then pressed on.

  “And yet… you accepted the title and the robe from the Emperor’s hand. Do you not fear entanglement in those currents? Is it not… transgression?”

  Yisi regarded him a long moment—gentle, unoffended.

  “Your eye is keen, Han Sen. Corruption festers, yes. It weakens the realm, harms the people, and threatens all.

  Yet we are called to righteousness, are we not?”

  Han Sen inclined his head.

  “But how, when the foundations themselves are tainted?”

  Yisi leaned forward, voice calm as still water.

  “Tell me—is it the governance that is corrupt, or the men who wield it?”

  Han Sen frowned.

  “What difference? Those who hold power are the governance.”

  “Do men create the offices they fill?” Yisi asked. “Or do they step into positions already established?”

  Han Sen considered.

  “The positions are decreed by the Emperor.”

  “Precisely. Guanglu Daifu, Minister of Defense, Minister of Finance—all created by imperial will.

  Was corruption woven into their making?”

  “No,” Han Sen admitted slowly. “When the Emperor decrees them, the intent is order… benefit for the realm.”

  Yisi nodded.

  “Imperfect, yes—limited by mortal sight. Yet the purpose is good.

  Corruption comes when men twist that purpose—bend it to private gain, make it harm instead of help.

  Accepting a title is not corruption.

  Abusing authority—that is corruption.”

  Han Sen sat in silence.

  The words settled like clear water over muddied thoughts.

  Not a condemnation of the realm.

  But of those who betrayed it.

  Yisi watched him with quiet compassion.

  “The light enters where it can, Han Sen.

  Even into flawed vessels.”

  Han Sen sat opposite Priest Yisi, the weight of the palace still upon him.

  At last, he spoke again.

  “Does proximity to corruption not invite it within oneself?”

  Yisi regarded him steadily.

  “It is possible. Ill company taints virtuous habits. Weakness of spirit—susceptibility to greed, anger, envy—these are the tendrils by which corruption spreads, a consuming fire that ravages all it touches.”

  Han Sen’s voice was low.

  “Venerable sir… do you not fear this fire?”

  Yisi’s smile was gentle, unflinching.

  “Must one be consumed by a fire simply because it burns nearby? Surely not.

  There exists a barrier within the soul—a threshold that must be crossed before one commits acts of depravity.

  It is a conscious choice.

  A decision made.”

  He paused.

  “A man of sound spirit will hesitate—will waver—when first tempted toward wrongdoing.

  The heaviest burden, the most profound transgression, is the taking of a human life. That weight is crushing.

  But once that boundary is breached, corruption becomes easier. More commonplace.”

  Han Sen nodded slowly.

  “The Buddhist monks—the bhante—choose to remain aloof from worldly affairs.

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  Many martial heroes of the jianghu do good without seeking government office.

  To serve as an official is to invite corruption.”

  “That is their choice,” Yisi replied. “A path they deem righteous.”

  Han Sen met his gaze.

  “And your own view, venerable sir?”

  Yisi leaned forward, voice calm yet firm.

  “Young Han Sen, are there not good and useful intentions behind the bestowal of office—intentions that benefit the people and the realm?”

  “Indeed, there are.”

  “And if those intentions are realized, do they not bring benefit to all?

  What then, if no one is willing to undertake such duties?

  How is governance maintained?

  How is the livelihood of the people sustained?”

  Han Sen fell silent.

  Monks renounced the world.

  Jianghu heroes walked their own paths.

  Yet the burdens of governance—the feeding of millions, the ordering of vast lands—fell upon officials.

  And those officials were corrupt.

  “If officials are corrupt,” he said at last, “are the lives of the people sustained?”

  Yisi’s eyes held steady compassion.

  “And if there are no officials, are the lives of the people sustained?”

  Han Sen’s breath caught.

  “Some believe it better to have no officials than corrupt ones.”

  “Such sentiments may be voiced,” Yisi answered gently. “But are they true?

  Truth must be grounded in reality—not in emotion, feeling, or mere desire.

  The people are numerous.

  This land is vast.

  Without officials, many things cannot be accomplished.

  Many needs cannot be met.

  In reality, the existence of a few corrupt officials is preferable to the absence of officials altogether.”

  He paused.

  “Ultimately… are we not all sinners, having forfeited the grace of God?”

  Han Sen’s voice was quiet.

  “So… corruption is permissible?”

  “Certainly not,” Yisi said firmly. “The grace bestowed upon fallen humanity does not grant license to continue in sin.

  One must cease the practice of corruption.”

  He leaned closer.

  “Yet it is also unwise to deliberately eliminate officials—to dismantle governance—to plunge the realm into chaos and lawlessness.”

  Silence settled.

  Han Sen felt the words sink deep—not as an excuse, but as a hard truth.

  The world was flawed.

  Men more so.

  Yet abandonment brought greater ruin.

  The dragon sat in quiet light.

  While beyond the small monastery, Chang’an’s vast machinery turned—creaking, corrupted, yet still holding the realm together.

  Word of Deng Tian Men spread through the palace like smoke through cracked doors.

  First, the doctrine.

  The sect proclaimed openly: the Emperor was the Son of Heaven.

  To serve him was to serve Heaven itself.

  Through such service, Heaven would bestow strength and prosperity upon humankind.

  The teaching struck deep in eunuch hearts.

  They had long styled themselves priests of imperial divinity—guardians of the sacred person.

  Under Li Fuguo, devotion had been fervent: the Emperor’s every whim divine will.

  When the Emperor fell ill, devotion shifted seamless to the Crown Prince—new Son of Heaven—while true power remained in eunuch hands.

  Did they truly care for the Emperor?

  No.

  The throne was conduit.

  Power the prize.

  Faith twisted to ambition.

  Corrupt men cloak greed in sacred words.

  Second, the black stones.

  Rapid, permanent qi surge.

  Martial prowess—once denied them by flesh and fate—is now within reach.

  Strength to command fear.

  To silence whispers of “half-men.”

  Among them, Hong Cu possessed the sharpest talent.

  He had touched Foundation Establishment—early stage, yet far beyond most eunuchs.

  Fear chained him still—lowly gardener, invisible, never daring prominence.

  When Deng Tian Men’s name reached him, he acted.

  Secret passage—known to none, unguarded.

  Night cloak.

  He slipped beyond palace walls.

  Registered.

  Knelt before Pekong Sun.

  Pledged loyalty.

  Oaths to the Emperor were discarded like worn cloth.

  Most eunuchs were steeped in corruption.

  Only a few believed in true sacrifice for the Son of Heaven.

  The rest seized five stones eagerly.

  Cold qi flooded meridians.

  Growth explosive.

  Hong Cu spent nights outside walls—training halls, black stone rituals.

  Power swelled.

  Foundation peaks in weeks.

  Disposition hardened—ruthless, merciless, life cheap.

  A month later—masked, voice cold—he rose.

  Fourth elder.

  Title: Sky Hand.

  He grew bolder.

  Palace whispers—servants’ gossip, maids’ fears—became his memory.

  Relayed to Pekong Sun and elders.

  They learned the palace’s true master: Cheng Yuanzhen, commander of the Shence Guard.

  Impenetrable elite.

  How to place themselves within?

  Hong Cu—Sky Hand—smiled behind a mask.

  While in distant streets, a youth searched for his mother.

  Unaware that the darkness had already reached the heart of power.

  And named him an enemy.

  Han Sen left the small Jingjiao monastery with the priest’s words still echoing quietly within him.

  The afternoon streets welcomed him back—warm, crowded, alive.

  He drifted toward his favored haunt: the eastern market.

  To sit among the stalls, savoring simple pleasures while watching the endless flow of humanity, had become his quiet joy.

  Having worn Tong Lai’s face inside palace walls, he now recognized many who passed.

  That smooth-cheeked man in plain robes—eunuch.

  That hurried servant with palace livery beneath outer cloak—inner court runner.

  Some sought tea.

  Other provisions.

  Unseen by Han Sen, he too was recognized.

  Deng Tian Men’s eyes were everywhere now.

  They knew his face.

  His name: Han Sen.

  The youth who lingered in markets.

  Who bought roasted rice cakes without haste.

  Who showed no deference to their sect.

  One who disrespected Deng Tian Men must be erased.

  That day, as Han Sen sat at his usual stool—banana-leaf parcel warm in hand—six figures closed in.

  Two moved with the careful gait of eunuchs.

  The others—broad-shouldered disciples in dark robes.

  Market chatter faltered.

  Then erupted in chaos.

  Han Sen rose swiftly—leaping to open ground away from stalls.

  He would not risk merchants’ livelihoods.

  His foes showed no such care.

  Six blades flashed—steel whistling through air.

  Two at Foundation Establishment.

  Four at Qi Condensation peak.

  They struck in practiced formation—angles tight, qi coordinated.

  Han Sen drew only the simple blackwood staff from his pouch.

  Five Thunders Palm surged—staff crackling with nascent lightning and phantom solar heat.

  Yet the combined assault held.

  Strikes deflected.

  Pressure constant.

  The fight stretched longer than any before.

  Market guards—nine strong—hovered at the edge, unwilling to approach the whistling steel.

  Han Sen had sought only to dissuade.

  To warn.

  He had not wished for blood.

  But these men fought with savage intent—eyes cold, strikes aimed to kill.

  No restraint.

  No mercy.

  Beasts in human skin.

  And they battled amid stalls—risking lives and wares without care.

  Unfair ground.

  Han Sen’s heart hardened.

  He channeled a deeper force.

  One powerful sweep—qi exploding outward.

  Four attackers staggered, formation broken.

  Space opened.

  Five Winds unfolded.

  Body light as mist.

  He leapt—over heads, over carts—vanishing into the maze of lanes.

  “Pursue!” the leader roared.

  But how could they match his lightness?

  In moments, Han Sen was gone.

  A fleeting shadow.

  Beyond reach.

  He paused in a quiet alley, breath steady.

  A sigh escaped.

  How, in days to come, could he return to the market he loved?

  To sit.

  To eat.

  To watch the world without drawing blades?

  The commotion in the marketplace reached the palace before sunset—whispers carried on swift feet, reports laid upon Cheng Yuanzhen’s desk like offerings.

  A youth—handsome, deadly—had scattered six Deng Tian Men disciples as if they were leaves.

  Han Sen.

  The very boy Liu Yan had brought.

  Causing a stir in the capital?

  Cheng Yuanzhen’s fingers drummed once upon the lacquered wood.

  What manner of place does he think this is?

  Deng Tian Men.

  The name had already drifted to his ears—rapid growth, black stones, strength unnatural.

  Intriguing.

  He issued a quiet command.

  “Bring me their representative.”

  Swiftly, a masked figure arrived—robes dark, posture deferential.

  Face hidden.

  Voice smooth.

  Cheng Yuanzhen did not recognize him as a palace eunuch.

  The man bowed low.

  “I am Sky Hand, elder of Deng Tian Men. We are truly honored.”

  Praise followed—lavish, practiced.

  “Deng Tian Men exists to glorify the Son of Heaven. Service to the Emperor is service to Heaven itself. Through us, Heaven’s strength flows to the realm.”

  Cheng Yuanzhen listened, eyes half-lidded.

  “What boon do you offer me?”

  Sky Hand’s voice dropped, reverent.

  “We can reinforce the Shence Guard. Our elders have reached Core Formation. And our loyalty is yours—unwavering.”

  Core Formation.

  A realm of legendary generals.

  Now offered freely.

  Cheng Yuanzhen’s pulse quickened, veiled behind calm.

  “Very well,” he murmured—soft, for only keen ears. “But to earn this favor… eliminate Han Sen. By any means.”

  Eunuchs spoke the greatest decrees in whispers.

  Sky Hand bowed deeper.

  “Of course, Your Excellency. Han Sen is already an enemy of our sect.”

  A subtle smile curved beneath the mask.

  From that day, the elders of Deng Tian Men walked the Shence Guard’s halls.

  Positions granted.

  Authority shared.

  Cheng Yuanzhen watched his elite grow stronger—swifter, deadlier.

  Pleased.

  Blind to the shadows lengthening within his own ranks.

  Monsters now guarded the throne.

  Wearing loyal faces.

  And the palace—heart of power—harbored demons in its veins.

  Cheng Yuanzhen smiled.

  Believing strength gained.

  While corruption claimed another layer.

  Irreversible.

  Inevitable.

  The darkness deepened.

  And no light yet pierced it.