With the Art of Vanishing still cloaking his form, Han Sen slipped through the morning shadows back to the courtyard dwelling.

  Naked, skin still warm from the sun’s endless gaze, he entered his chamber unseen.

  He dressed swiftly—simple robes, clean and familiar—then stepped out into the daylight as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.

  Kim Tun stood at the kitchen counter, hands busy slicing salted meats for the day’s broth.

  “Uncle,” Han Sen said, voice calm and even, “may I offer my assistance?”

  Kim Tun glanced up, relief softening his tired features.

  “Han Sen? Yes, lad—hang those salted cuts over there, will you?”

  Han Sen moved to the rack, arranging the strips with careful hands.

  Kim Tun watched him a moment, then spoke again, tone casual yet edged with curiosity.

  “Han Sen… did you see that lightning strike on Phoenix Peak today at noon? In broad daylight, no less. A most peculiar thing. What do you suppose caused it?”

  Han Sen paused, a faint smile touching his lips—disarming, untroubled.

  “Ah… a most unusual sight, Uncle. I know not its meaning.”

  Kim Tun chuckled, though his eyes lingered.

  “You haven’t been pushing yourself too hard in cultivation, have you? I only gave you that Golden Essence tome two days ago.”

  A pang stirred in Han Sen’s chest.

  His uncle was no fool. Where Uncle Hok Si Beng had seen only diligence, Kim Tun saw deeper—understood the martial way with a merchant’s quiet insight.

  Han Sen set the last strip of meat upon the rack and turned to face him fully.

  “Uncle,” he said, voice low and candid, “it is true. I have… entered Core Formation.”

  Kim Tun’s knife stilled.

  “WHAT?” he breathed, eyes widening. “How could it be so swift?”

  Han Sen drew the Golden Orb from his pouch—warm, heavy, glowing faintly with trapped sunlight.

  “It was aided by this, Uncle. The Golden Ball. Therefore, I return the tome of Golden Essence. It is of great value. And this orb… you should keep it.”

  He placed both upon the counter—tome and orb side by side.

  Kim Tun stared, speechless.

  “Uncle,” Han Sen continued gently, “perhaps in time, young Kim In will take up the martial path. This could hasten her journey to Core Formation. A perfect core, if she is fortunate.”

  The elder’s hands trembled as he touched the golden sphere.

  He lifted the tome—old family heirloom—then the orb, cradling it like something sacred.

  “Han Sen…” he whispered. “This is no ordinary gift. The Golden Essence speaks of years—decades—of study to reach Core Formation. A perfect core that calls down Heavenly Thunder… few survive it. How could you…?”

  Han Sen met his gaze, steady and humble.

  “For me, it took five months beneath an endless dawn. The sun itself became my teacher, the crimson stone my guide. I drew its power, tempered my core, and faced the tribulation.”

  Kim Tun exhaled slowly, awe and gratitude mingling in his eyes.

  “You are no ordinary youth, Han Sen.”

  He bowed—deep, respectful—first time he had done so.

  “Thank you. For your trust. For this gift. For all you have done.”

  Han Sen bowed in return—lower still.

  “I am the one grateful, Uncle. Your roof sheltered me. Your family showed me kindness when I had none. This is only repayment.”

  Kim Tun straightened, eyes shining.

  “Then let us work together. The restaurant will open today—thanks to you.”

  Han Sen smiled—small, genuine.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  The dragon, newly forged core blazing within, returned to the simple tasks of the day.

  Serving noodles.

  Tallying coins.

  Wiping tables.

  Within the vermilion walls of the Imperial Palace, Emperor Daizong sat upon the Dragon Throne, dragon robes heavy as chains.

  He had begun to taste the true weight of rule.

  Cheng Yuanzhen stood at his right—eunuch general, voice smooth and certain.

  Yuan Zai at his left—advisor in civil affairs, eyes sharp yet cautious.

  “Your Majesty,” Yuan Zai said, bowing low, “our situation grows dire. We can no longer afford fifty thousand bolts of silk as tribute to Tubo.”

  Cheng Yuanzhen’s reply came swiftly, tone resolute.

  “It is of no consequence, Your Majesty. Forgo the tribute. The Tang stands strong. Heaven favors the Son of Heaven. Trisong Dets?n will take no action.”

  He spoke with unwavering conviction, as though the words alone could bend reality.

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  None in the hall perceived the deception.

  As master of military affairs, Cheng Yuanzhen buried every grim report from the northwest—spies’ warnings of Tubo armies swelling, of borders thinning, of warlords hoarding grain while pretending loyalty.

  He silenced the truth.

  Ensured no voice reached the throne that might disturb the Emperor’s fragile peace.

  Daizong sat frozen, gaze distant.

  Since the days of Prince Li Yu—scholar lost in poetry and philosophy—he had never grasped the coils of strategy, the hidden blades of politics.

  Men’s hearts remained a foreign script.

  His reign endured only because Cheng Yuanzhen appeared cooperative, ever ready with reassurance.

  He failed to see how deeply a eunuch’s power could root.

  Martial skill Cheng possessed, yes—qi refined, blade swift.

  But did fists and inner energy make a man master of armies?

  Did high cultivation grant wisdom to command a nation?

  Daizong turned to Yuan Zai.

  “Advisor,” he asked, voice heavy with doubt, “what course should we take?”

  Yuan Zai bowed again, deeper.

  “Your Majesty, we should await Liu Yan’s return. A prodigy from youth—his mind sees paths others miss. He will offer clearer counsel.”

  Daizong felt the words around him like perfumed smoke—pleasant, yet veiling truth.

  Everyone spoke what he wished to hear.

  Or what served their own ends.

  The generals remained in their provinces—enriching themselves behind walls of Confucian virtue.

  Rituals were performed with flawless precision.

  From dawn sacrifice to evening repose, every gesture, every chant, every bow observed the ancient forms.

  Courtiers praised his piety.

  Lauded him as a worthy Son of Heaven.

  Yet as their lips offered reverence, as their hands clasped in shoubei li praying for heaven’s blessing, those same hands reached for wealth—seizing, hoarding, indifferent to the suffering beyond the palace gates.

  What worth lay in proclamations of faith and morality when actions betrayed them?

  Daizong gazed upon the golden roof beams, dragon carvings staring back in silent judgment.

  The empire bled.

  And he, its heart, beat in a cage of silk and ceremony.

  While the true storm gathered in the west.

  Unnoticed.

  Unanswered.

  Peace had long fled the Tang lands.

  Where bandits did not prey, monstrous creatures did.

  And on this day, a band of brigands gathered before the gates of Kim Tun’s restaurant.

  Twenty rough men—blades at belts, faces scarred by cruelty—blocked the courtyard entrance.

  The leader stepped forward, voice booming.

  “Owner! By order of the Dark Emperor! From this day, you pay one tael of silver daily as tribute. Fail, and this place burns—with all inside.”

  They surged forward, hands reaching for weapons.

  Han Sen stepped between them and the gate.

  His staff met the leader’s wrist—crack sharp as breaking a branch.

  The man staggered back, blade clattering to stone.

  “Mad youth!” he snarled. “You dare defy an official of the Dark Emperor’s government?”

  “You are the mad ones,” Han Sen answered, voice calm yet edged with steel. “This is still Tang soil, under imperial law.”

  The leader laughed—harsh, mocking.

  “Hehehe, foolish child. What Tang remains? Officials fled or bowed. Their offices belong to the Dark Emperor—Illustrious Huang He! Oppose him, and die.”

  “You rabid curs,” Han Sen said quietly. “It is you who will meet your end here.”

  He held nothing back.

  Five Winds unfolded—body blurring, afterimages flickering like heat haze.

  Five Thunders Palm struck—searing heat blooming beneath lightning.

  Flesh burned.

  Bones cracked.

  In heartbeats, twenty men lay groaning upon the ground—wounded deep, unconscious, power shattered.

  None dead.

  Kim Tun emerged, eyes wide yet steady.

  “Han Sen,” he called, “go. Protect the other shops in Tongzhou. I will handle these dogs.”

  Han Sen bowed once, then vanished—wind carrying him through the streets.

  The market square lay under siege.

  Brigands swarmed—demanding tribute, smashing stalls, dragging owners into the open.

  No soldiers.

  No officials.

  Only fear.

  Han Sen moved like a storm through wheat.

  Tongzhou was small, with few shops.

  The brigands were brutes—muscle and blade, no qi, no skill.

  They fell swiftly.

  Merchants wept with gratitude.

  Children peeked from doorways.

  Yet Han Sen did not stop.

  He followed the trail of arrogance to the heart of town—the government yamen, once the seat of imperial authority.

  Now banners of the Dark Emperor flew above its gates.

  Scores of brigands lounged within—drinking, laughing, lording over captured coin.

  Han Sen entered.

  Staff sang.

  Thunder rolled through the halls.

  Men fell—groaning heaps upon polished floors.

  From the inner chamber boomed a voice—deep, mocking.

  “Insolent wretch! Who dares defy Huang He, the Dark Emperor?”

  A hulking figure emerged—bare-chested, clad only in a loincloth, muscles corded like old roots.

  Behind him, three young women huddled—faces pale, eyes hollow, clothes torn.

  Fresh shame marked their skin.

  It was clear what the self-proclaimed emperor had done.

  Han Sen’s grip tightened upon the staff.

  Rage consumed Han Sen.

  Huang He burned with equal fury.

  Both men surged forward—two cultivators at the pinnacle of Core Formation clashing in the heart of the abandoned yamen hall.

  Windows shattered outward under the force of colliding qi.

  Glass and wood rained upon the courtyard stones.

  Han Sen retreated into the open space—the once-bustling government courtyard, fifteen zhang by fifteen, paved with weathered flagstone that had known the footsteps of officials and petitioners alike.

  Now it has become an arena.

  Two auras collided—visible ripples distorting the air like heat above summer pavement.

  Han Sen stood calm, power gathered inward, face a mask of focused stillness.

  Huang He, opposite—eyes blazing ambition, body taut with wild resolve.

  Both at Core Formation’s peak.

  Yet their styles could not differ more.

  Han Sen moved with restrained precision—every motion measured, power coiled like a dragon sleeping in deep waters.

  Huang He fought like a storm unleashed—frantic spins, sudden leaps, rolls, kicks, and strikes in a relentless barrage, seeking to overwhelm through sheer ferocity.

  The battle erupted in a whirlwind exchange.

  Huang He darted first—a flurry of blows, fists and feet blurring, trying to trap Han Sen in a cage of motion.

  Han Sen defended with serene economy—body twisting just enough, palms intercepting at perfect angles, redirecting force rather than meeting it head-on.

  Each time Huang He committed, Han Sen answered with a burst of thunderous energy—palm strikes that shook the air like distant drums.

  Huang He pressed harder—leaping high, plummeting down, springing sideways, movements savage and unpredictable.

  Yet cracks appeared.

  Sweat beaded upon his brow.

  Breath grew ragged.

  Han Sen’s counters—never wasted, always precise—drained him steadily.

  Balance shifted.

  Openings flickered.

  Han Sen advanced.

  Steps deliberate.

  Palms glowing brighter.

  Huang He evaded—desperate twist—but too late.

  Han Sen’s palm struck true—the center of the chest.

  CRAAACK!

  Bone shattered.

  Qi exploded inward.

  Huang He flew backward—body tumbling across stone, crashing against the far wall.

  He slid to the ground.

  Eyes wide.

  Mouth coughing blood.

  Then, like the monsters before him, his form dissolved—flesh to dust, dust to nothing.

  Only a bracelet of dark carved wood remained upon the stones.

  Han Sen stared.

  “Huang He… a monster too?”

  Revelation settled cold.

  The courtyard fell silent.

  From behind walls and cracked doors, the people of Tongzhou watched—eyes wide, breaths held.

  They longed to cheer.

  Han Sen’s voice rang clear across the square.

  “People of Tongzhou! Seize every bandit and criminal—now!”

  Fear turned to purpose.

  Doors opened.

  Hands reached.

  Wounded brigands—groaning, helpless—were dragged into the open.

  Three hundred and sixty-five in total, including those from the restaurant.

  They lay scattered across the courtyard stones.

  Soon, officials arrived—robes hurried, faces pale—followed by a hundred soldiers in mismatched armor.

  They stared at the bound captives.

  At the youth standing calm amid the wreckage.

  “Brothers,” an official called to the crowd, voice trembling yet authoritative, “return to your homes. We will handle this.”

  The people dispersed.

  Han Sen lingered at the market’s edge, gaze fixed upon the yamen.

  Soldiers moved among the prisoners.

  Blades rose.

  Fell.

  No trial.

  No mercy.

  One by one, the bandits died—quick, efficient, like vermin beneath a boot.

  Han Sen shuddered.

  He had taken no lives.

  Only broken power.

  Delivered justice into official hands.

  Yet here justice wore the face of slaughter.

  If a man chose crime, capture was right.

  But execution without word or judgment—what realm was this?

  Han Sen turned away.

  The dragon walked home through quiet streets.

  Core blazing golden within.

  Heart heavier than before.

  Phoenix Mountain kept its silence.

  And the empire’s shadow lengthened further.

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