The night the fire came, Xia Yun was just eight years old. The wind carried the scent of smoke before she even saw the flames lick the edges of the village. Her small hands clutched her mother’s, and her wide eyes reflected the glow of burning homes. The screams of neighbors, the crack of splintering wood, and the clash of steel against steel filled the night like a terrible symphony.

  Her father had rushed to meet the attackers, shouting for villagers to flee, his sword slicing through shadows. Her mother pulled Xia Yun behind the low walls of their home, pressing her small body close. "Stay hidden," her mother whispered, her voice trembling but firm. "No matter what, you must survive." Xia Yun wanted to protest, to stay with them, but she knew the strength in her mother’s gaze.

  By dawn, the village was no more than ashes and charred bones. Xia Yun emerged from the debris, coughing, her hands blackened with soot. Her parents’ bodies lay still among the ruins, their blood mingling with the earth. Alone, she felt a hollow cold spread inside her chest, a grief so deep it pressed the air from her lungs.

  The mountains became her refuge. For years, she wandered along winding paths, through dense forests and over jagged cliffs, surviving on whatever the land provided. She learned to move like a shadow, hunting small animals with crude traps, drinking from icy streams, and sleeping beneath the stars. Her mind, however, was never still. Every memory of the fire, every echo of her parents’ last moments, fueled a fierce, quiet rage. She promised herself one thing: never again would she be powerless.

  In the solitude of the wilderness, she began to fight. She had no teacher, no guide—only instinct and the vague recollection of her father’s strikes and her mother’s defensive stances. She imitated what she remembered, her small fists and feet cutting through the air with growing precision. The pain and sorrow that weighed her down became fuel for her movement, shaping her into something far beyond a frightened child.

  Years passed. Her limbs grew strong, her senses sharp, and the lonely girl became a shadow upon the mountains. Villagers in nearby towns whispered of a girl who appeared out of nowhere, confronting bandits and thieves with unmatched speed, vanishing like smoke before anyone could catch her. She became a ghost of justice, a solitary protector, though her heart remained heavy with the memory of loss.

  It was during one such night, after driving off a group of marauders near a hidden valley, that Xia Yun first saw him. Zheng Xin, an elderly man with eyes sharp as a hawk and the calm aura of someone who had lived a hundred lives, watched her from the edge of a cliff. His robes were simple, but his posture betrayed the presence of a lifetime of mastery.

  “You fight well,” he said, his voice carrying without effort over the distance. “But skill without guidance is like a blade without a handle—it may cut, but it will eventually break.”

  Xia Yun stiffened. She had never met another human who did not fear her or pity her. Yet something in his calm gaze made her pause. Caution warred with curiosity.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her tone sharper than she intended.

  “I am Zheng Xin,” he replied simply, stepping closer. “And I believe you have the potential to become more than a shadow of vengeance. You have the heart of a wushi, child. But that heart must be tempered with discipline, with wisdom. If you will accept it, I can teach you.”

  For a long moment, Xia Yun’s fists clenched at her sides, memories of death and fire pressing in. Could she trust anyone again? Could she risk opening herself to someone, even to learn?

  Her mother’s words, faint but persistent in her mind, answered before she could: survive. Learn. Grow. She nodded, the first glimmer of hope in her storm-dark eyes.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Teach me.”

  And so, the lonely girl who had known only grief and survival began the path to becoming a wushi under Master Zheng Xin, her rage slowly forging into precision, her sorrow tempered into strength, and her heart opening to the possibility of mastery beyond mere vengeance.

  Under Zheng Xin’s guidance, Xia Yun’s new life began not with glory, but with hardship.

  The hidden valley where he brought her was unlike anywhere she had ever seen. Mist curled along moss-covered stones, waterfalls cascaded down narrow cliffs, and ancient pines stood like silent sentinels. A small wooden training hall sat at the heart of the valley, worn smooth by decades of footsteps. The air itself felt disciplined—calm, measured, shaped.

  Zheng Xin wasted no time.

  On her first morning as his student, before the sun had even risen, he tapped the wooden floor with his staff. “Stand,” he said.

  Xia Yun stood.

  “Breathe.”

  She breathed.

  “Again.”

  Hours passed like this—breathing, standing, walking, sitting, repeating the simplest motions until her muscles trembled. Sweat beaded down her brow. Her jaw clenched. She had imagined learning swift strikes, flowing kicks, the kind of power that would let her crush those responsible for her village’s destruction.

  Instead, her master had her sweep floors, carry buckets of water up steep steps, and hold stances until her legs quivered.

  When she grew frustrated, Zheng Xin only raised a brow.

  “A blade is forged with patience,” he said. “You wish to cut through mountains, yet have not even shaped your edge.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I want to be strong. I need to be strong.”

  “And you will be,” he replied. “But strength without foundation is a falling stone. And a falling stone crushes nothing except itself.”

  Though she disliked his methods, Xia Yun obeyed. She woke before dawn, trained until dusk, and fell asleep with sore limbs. Zheng Xin often watched silently, correcting her posture with a tap of his staff or adjusting her footing with a gentle nudge.

  Weeks turned into months.

  Her movements refined. Her breathing became steady. Her once-wild footwork became grounded, balanced, precise. The anger that used to surge uncontrollably during combat began to flow into her strikes instead of breaking them.

  One evening, after a long day of training, Zheng Xin handed her a wooden practice blade for the first time.

  Xia Yun stared at it, surprised. “I can use this now?”

  His expression softened just a little. “Only because you are ready. Show me your stance.”

  She lifted the blade. Her legs rooted into the earth. Her breathing aligned with her center. And as she swung, her strike cut clean through the mist, sharper and more controlled than anything she had ever done.

  Zheng Xin nodded once. “Good. Now, again.”

  She swung.

  “Again.”

  Swing after swing, her arms burned. But for the first time, she felt the movement of a true wushi forming within her—calm, sharp, focused.

  Later that night, as the moon rose over the valley, Zheng Xin sat beside her outside the training hall.

  “You fight with grief,” he said quietly. “I can feel it in every motion.”

  Xia Yun’s grip tightened around the wooden blade resting on her lap. “I don’t want to forget what happened.”

  “Nor should you.” He looked up at the stars. “But grief is a river, not a weapon. If you let it flow, it nourishes your resolve. If you dam it up, it floods your heart and drowns you.”

  Xia Yun said nothing. She simply looked up at the same stars, the same sky her parents once looked upon. The ache in her chest never disappeared—but its sharpness dulled, shaped into something she could carry without breaking.

  From that night onward, she trained with a new purpose. Not just to avenge the past, but to protect the future.

  And Zheng Xin, seeing this shift, began preparing her for the next stage: harnessing her qi.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “you will begin learning the breath of the flowing mountain.”

  Xia Yun’s pulse quickened. Her true path as a wushi was finally beginning.

  The next morning, the valley felt different.

  Xia Yun stepped out into the cold dawn, frost crunching beneath her feet. Mist drifted in ribbons across the training grounds, thicker than usual, as if the valley itself held its breath. Zheng Xin stood at the center, hands folded behind him, his presence still and solid like an ancient boulder.

  “Today,” he said, “you begin the Breath of the Flowing Mountain.”

  Xia Yun bowed, heart pounding. She had watched him use it only once—when he confronted a group of armed thieves who dared sneak into the valley. He hadn’t struck them. He hadn’t needed to. His presence alone had bent the air around him, turning their blades aside and rooting them to the ground as if invisible hands pulled them down.

  She remembered thinking: That is the strength of a true wushi.

  Zheng Xin tapped the ground with his staff. “Sit.”

  She knelt.

  “What is a mountain to you?” he asked.

  Xia Yun hesitated. “…Strong. Immovable.”

  “A mountain flows,” Zheng Xin corrected. “Its rivers move, its stone shifts, its presence changes with time. Even mountains breathe. To be immovable is to be brittle. To be flowing is to endure.”

  He guided her through the breathing pattern, each inhale shaped like the rise of a hill, each exhale like the long, slow fall of stone settling after a landslide. At first, it felt unnatural—too slow, too heavy, too deep. Her breath snagged. Her chest burned.

  Zheng Xin watched her struggle. He did not scold. He did not correct. He simply said, “Again.”

  Hours passed. The sun climbed above the cliffs. Her breaths grew more rhythmic, her heartbeat falling into the gentle cadence of the valley’s wind. For the first time, she felt the center of her body—the quiet pool of heat behind her navel—pulse gently, like a sleeping ember.

  “That is your qi,” Zheng Xin murmured. “Do not grasp it. Let it come to you.”

  She focused. The ember flickered, warm against the cold air, filling her limbs with a subtle weight, grounding her. The world around her sharpened: every rustle of leaves, every shift of mist, the faint drip of water from nearby stones.

  She gasped softly. “I can feel everything…”

  Zheng Xin nodded. “Good. Now stand.”

  When she rose, the ground felt different. Firmer. Connected.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Strike,” he ordered.

  She swung her wooden practice blade. It cut through the air with a low, resonant hum—deeper and heavier than it should have sounded. The mist parted instantly around her, spiraling away as if pulled by an unseen force.

  Her breath trembled. “I—I did that?”

  “You did,” Zheng Xin said calmly. “But mastering it will take years. This is the first step.”

  He gestured toward a boulder the size of a horse. Dark, solid, unmoving.

  “Strike it.”

  Xia Yun blinked. “With… this wooden blade?”

  “It is not the blade that strikes. It is your qi.”

  She inhaled—slow, deep, steady. The Breath of the Flowing Mountain filled her chest, her limbs, her spirit. She stepped forward, grounded her stance, and swung.

  The wooden blade hit the boulder with a dull thud.

  Nothing happened.

  Pain shot through her arms. Her grip loosened. She let out a frustrated cry, teeth gritting. All that focus—wasted.

  Zheng Xin simply raised one brow. “Again.”

  She struck.

  Again.

  And again.

  Her breath broke. Her stance wavered. Her arms shook violently.

  “Why can’t I do it?!” she shouted, voice cracking with frustration and a flicker of old grief.

  Zheng Xin stepped close, placing one hand gently but firmly over hers.

  “Because you still try to force strength,” he said. “Power is not taken. It is gathered.”

  He guided her stance, repositioning her feet, lowering her shoulders, realigning her center of balance. “Now,” he said softly. “Do not think of the mountain as something you must break. Think of it as something you must join.”

  Xia Yun swallowed her frustration and breathed again.

  Her breath deepened.

  Her qi gathered.

  Her stance rooted.

  She struck.

  Crack.

  A thin fracture line appeared on the boulder’s surface.

  Xia Yun’s eyes widened in shock. Her wooden blade trembled—not from weakness, but from power finally taking shape.

  Zheng Xin smiled faintly, the closest thing to pride she had ever seen on his usually stoic face.

  “You see? Even mountains can be moved.”

  For the first time since her parents’ deaths, Xia Yun felt something warm bloom inside her—hope, pride, and the quiet certainty that she truly could become the greatest wushi.

  Her path had only just begun.

  Xia Yun’s training intensified as months turned into years.

  The valley became her entire world—its forests her testing grounds, its rivers her teachers in flow and patience, its cliffs her lessons in balance and fearlessness. Under Zheng Xin’s constant, unwavering guidance, she pushed past every limit she thought she had.

  But progress never came without struggle.

  Each dawn, before the sun’s first light touched the mist, she was awake. Zheng Xin stood waiting, as constant as an ancient statue, his silhouette outlined faintly in the gray.

  “Today,” he would say, “you will train until your mind quiets.”

  This meant striking the training posts until her arms numbed, leaping between stone pillars until her legs trembled, and practicing the Breath of the Flowing Mountain until she felt every grain of sand beneath her feet.

  Some days, she moved with grace and power, her strikes sharp and deliberate. Other days, frustration gnawed at her. Her grief surged unexpectedly. Memories of the fire, of her parents’ faces, of screams echoing through her skull, broke her focus and left her breath ragged.

  “Your heart wavers,” Zheng Xin said one late afternoon as she faltered during a stance hold, collapsing to her knees.

  “I can’t—” Xia Yun’s voice cracked. “Some days I can’t keep it out.”

  “You do not keep it out.” Zheng Xin knelt beside her. “You let it pass through you. Grief is a current. Let it flow. Do not let it drag you.”

  She pressed her palms to the earth, trembling. “I want to be strong enough to protect others. But I still feel that fear inside me.”

  Zheng Xin tapped her chest gently with one knuckle. “Courage is not the absence of fear. It is standing anyway.”

  His words settled deep within her. And so she stood. Again and again, she stood.

  The day her first true trial came, the valley winds were restless.

  Zheng Xin led her to the edge of the Whispering Ravine—a narrow gorge slicing through the mountain like a scar. The wind that rushed through it echoed faintly with voices, earning the ravine its eerie name.

  Xia Yun stared down at the dizzying drop. “Master… what is this place?”

  “Your trial,” he said simply. “Cross it.”

  She blinked. “Cross it how?”

  He pointed.

  Thin wooden beams, no wider than a hand’s breadth, jutted from the cliff walls at uneven intervals. They vanished into the mist on the far side.

  Xia Yun swallowed hard. “If I fall—”

  “You will die,” Zheng Xin finished. “That is why you will not fall.”

  Her pulse hammered. Her palms dampened. She had fought bandits. She had lived through a massacre. But this… this struck fear into her bones in a way she hadn’t expected.

  “Trust your training,” he said. “Trust your breath.”

  Xia Yun inhaled. Slow. Deep. Flowing Mountain.

  She stepped out.

  The first beam wobbled under her foot. Wind rushed past her ears like whispers of the dead. She forced herself not to look down. Her breath steadied. Her stance softened. She moved to the next beam.

  And the next.

  Halfway across, the wind surged violently, nearly knocking her off. She flung her arms out, body rigid. Panic clawed at her chest.

  No… breathe… breathe…

  She closed her eyes, grounding her fear beneath her focus.

  Another step.

  Another.

  At last, her hands grasped the far cliff’s stone ledge. She pulled herself up, chest heaving, legs shaking.

  Zheng Xin was already there—somehow—watching her with calm approval.

  “You crossed,” he said.

  “I—” She swallowed. “I thought I would fall.”

  “But you did not.” His voice was warm, but firm. “You faced fear. And you stepped forward anyway. That is the heart of a wushi.”

  Her trembling faded into steady breath. For the first time, she understood: bravery was not loud. It did not roar. It whispered in the quiet moments when she took a step despite terror.

  She bowed deeply. “Thank you, Master.”

  Zheng Xin rested a hand briefly atop her head—an affection he rarely showed.

  “You grow stronger not because you pursue vengeance,” he said softly, “but because you pursue meaning.”

  That night, sitting beside the stream, Xia Yun watched her reflection dance across the rippling water. She no longer saw a frightened orphan. She saw someone building herself from the ashes.

  She whispered into the night, as if speaking to her parents through the wind:

  “I will become the greatest wushi. Not for revenge alone… but so I can protect others. So no child has to face what I did.”

  Behind her, Zheng Xin silently listened. And though his face remained calm, a quiet pride glimmered in his eyes.

  The next morning, training resumed—harder, deeper, more profound than before. Because now, Xia Yun was no longer simply surviving.

  She was becoming.

  It began during a storm.

  Thunder rolled through the mountains, shaking the valley with deep, echoing growls. Rain hammered the training hall, washing the stone paths into slick streams. Most students would have been given rest on a night like this.

  But Zheng Xin called her outside.

  Xia Yun stood beneath the sheets of rain, soaked to the bone, breath steady but tense. She could hardly see her master through the downpour—only the faint outline of his robe and the glow of a lantern beside him.

  “Tonight,” he said, “you will begin forging your own technique.”

  Her heart jumped. “My own…? But Master, I’m not ready.”

  “No wushi is ever ‘ready’,” he replied. “A technique is born when the heart demands strength beyond what it already knows.”

  He lifted a hand, and the storm’s wind warped around it, swirling into a controlled spiral.

  “The Flowing Mountain teaches you solidity, patience, grounding… but your heart seeks more than earth.”

  Xia Yun’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?”

  “You hold a storm inside you,” Zheng Xin said. “Grief and courage. Loss and will. You move like lightning when pushed. Your spirit is not still earth—it is rolling thunder.”

  Xia Yun lowered her gaze, rain dripping from her lashes. “I… don’t know how to shape that.”

  “That is why you train.”

  He pointed to the cliffside overlooking the valley’s entrance. The winds were strongest there, a place where gusts could sweep a person from the mountain if they misstepped.

  “Climb,” he ordered.

  She obeyed.

  The rain lashed at her face as she ascended, fingers digging into cold stone. The cliff winds battered her, threatening to tear her loose. But she pressed upward, breath steady, eyes unblinking. When she pulled herself over the final ledge, the storm hit her full force.

  Wind howled like a beast.

  Lightning flashed in the distant peaks.

  Below her, the valley looked small, drowned in darkness and rain.

  Zheng Xin climbed far more easily, stepping onto the cliff beside her with effortless balance.

  “Xia Yun,” he said, voice barely carrying in the wind, “strike into the storm.”

  She frowned. “Master—there is nothing to strike.”

  “That is the point. Strike anyway.”

  She held her wooden blade, inhaled the Breath of the Flowing Mountain—slow, grounded, steady—and swung.

  Her blade cut the rain, but the wind swallowed the strike whole.

  “Again.”

  She struck.

  Again, the wind erased it.

  She tried faster.

  Harder.

  Stronger.

  Her arms burned. Her lungs strained. The storm mocked her, swallowing every effort.

  “Master—” She gasped. “I can’t cut the wind!”

  Zheng Xin stepped behind her silently and placed his hand over hers.

  “You are trying to use earth against sky,” he said. “You cannot break wind with the mountain’s breath. Use your spirit.”

  “My… spirit?”

  “Yes. The storm inside you. Let your grief move. Let your will guide your strike.”

  She trembled—not from cold, but from the memories rising violently in her chest. The burning village. Her parents’ screams. The helplessness. The promise to become strong.

  Her breath changed.

  It wasn’t the Flowing Mountain.

  It was sharper.

  Faster.

  Alive.

  She inhaled like a lightning strike—quick, fierce.

  She exhaled like thunder—deep, rolling.

  For the first time, she felt her grief not as a crushing weight… but as raw, coursing power.

  She raised the wooden blade.

  The wind screamed.

  She stepped forward—

  —and struck.

  THOOOM.

  The storm split.

  Wind blasted outward in a circular wave, scattering rain in a perfect arc. The clouds trembled. The cliff vibrated beneath her feet.

  Xia Yun staggered, eyes wide.

  “I… I did that…?”

  Lightning illuminated the sky behind her, framing her silhouette like a warrior born of the storm.

  Zheng Xin smiled—a rare, soft, genuine smile.

  “That,” he said, “was the beginning of your own style. A technique born from grief, tempered by discipline, unleashed by will.”

  He bowed his head.

  “Xia Yun… you have awakened the Breath of the Tempest.”

  Her first true, personal wushi technique.

  But storms did not brew for her alone.

  For years, the valley had remained hidden—protected by ancient wards, the isolation of the mountains, and Zheng Xin’s reputation. Few dared approach. Even fewer survived the attempt.

  But that night, as the storm rolled across the peaks, something slipped through.

  Something dark.

  Something familiar.

  Far below, near the valley’s entrance, a figure cloaked in black stepped through the rain, footprints sizzling faintly in the mud. A demonic growl echoed beneath the thunder—low, hungry, and unmistakably inhuman.

  Xia Yun stood on the cliff, unaware that danger crept closer with every step.

  But Zheng Xin turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

  He had felt it.

  The past was moving again.

  And soon, Xia Yun would face it.

  The storm began to quiet—just enough for Xia Yun to hear it.

  A sound she thought she’d never hear again.

  A low, rattling hum… like breath passing through broken, inhuman teeth.

  Her blood froze.

  Zheng Xin stiffened beside her, eyes narrowing toward the valley below.

  “You hear it,” he murmured.

  Xia Yun swallowed hard, the memory of flames clawing at her chest. “I… I know that sound.”

  A sound from the night her village burned.

  A sound from the creature that tore through her family and left her the lone survivor.

  Zheng Xin placed a hand on her shoulder—not to comfort, but to steady. “Stay behind me. You are not ready for this battle.”

  Her jaw clenched. “Master, I—”

  “Obey.”

  She fell silent.

  Together, they descended from the cliff. The storm thinned, rain becoming mist as they approached the valley entrance. The air filled with a sulfuric stench—a burning rot she could never forget.

  Shadows rippled at the treeline.

  Then it stepped out.

  The creature was hunched, long-limbed, and skeletal, its skin stretched thin like old parchment. A mask of bone covered its face, cracked down the center, glowing red from within. Its claws dripped with a faint black venom that hissed when it hit the ground.

  Its eyes—if they could be called eyes—glowed with the same hungry crimson she remembered from that horrible night.

  Xia Yun stumbled back, gripping her wooden blade.

  “M-Master…”

  Her voice trembled despite all her training.

  “That’s the demon that killed my family.”

  Zheng Xin’s expression hardened, his normally calm aura sharpening into a steel edge.

  “I know.”

  The demon lunged.

  Zheng Xin moved first—faster than wind, faster than sight. His staff struck the ground, sending a shockwave through the earth that slammed into the demon, halting its charge.

  But it skidded left, claws slicing forward.

  Zheng Xin parried, the impact cracking the air like thunder.

  Xia Yun froze, watching the monster that had shaped her entire life clash with her master. Every heartbeat echoed with old terror… until one voice rose within her:

  Move.

  Her breath steadied.

  She inhaled—sharp and quick.

  The Breath of the Tempest.

  Wind flickered faintly around her fingers.

  She stepped into a stance.

  But Zheng Xin sensed her rising qi instantly.

  “Xia Yun!” he barked, forcing the demon back with a sweeping strike. “This is not your battle!”

  “But it’s my demon!” she shouted, voice breaking. “I can face it!”

  “You will die.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “Then you have learned nothing!”

  Her breath caught.

  The demon screeched, its voice like tearing metal. It lunged at them both, claws extended.

  Zheng Xin planted his foot and channeled his qi—the ground beneath him cracking. Earth surged upward, forming a barrier of stone.

  But the demon shattered it with brute force, its arm punching through the rock.

  Zheng Xin glided backward, staff swirling, but Xia Yun saw it—

  A moment.

  A tiny slip.

  A cut across her master’s arm.

  The demon was faster than expected.

  Too fast.

  Her grief twisted into a sharpened point.

  She inhaled lightning.

  She exhaled thunder.

  And before Zheng Xin could stop her, she sprinted toward the demon, qi swirling around her like the start of a storm.

  “XIA YUN—!”

  She leapt, wooden blade raised, every memory fueling her strike—

  The burning village.

  Her parents’ screams.

  The promise she had forged.

  Never again.

  Her blade descended with a crack of wind.

  It struck the demon’s mask.

  A fracture split across its surface.

  The creature reeled back, howling.

  Xia Yun landed hard, knees buckling, vision spinning—but she stayed standing.

  Zheng Xin appeared at her side in an instant, fury and worry warring in his gaze.

  “You acted recklessly.”

  “I landed a blow,” she said through shaky breaths. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

  Zheng Xin’s jaw tightened—but there was pride behind the sternness.

  “You are still not ready,” he said. “But you have taken your first step.”

  The demon snarled, hunched, mask cracked, eyes blazing with hatred.

  It recognized her, too.

  And with a hiss of retreat, it fled into the forest shadows—wounded but alive.

  Xia Yun staggered, breath trembling.

  “I… I hit it…”

  Zheng Xin placed a steady hand on her back. “Yes. And because of that, it will return. Stronger. Hungrier. It will not forget you.”

  She looked up at him, eyes burning with a mixture of fear and newfound resolve.

  “Good,” she whispered.

  “I won’t forget it either.”