Twenty-two days had passed since Han Sen returned to his ancestral home.

  “Mother! I am home!” he cried, his voice echoing with a longing he’d kept bottled for too long. The ache of absence was a constant companion during his years of rigorous training.

  But no answering voice greeted him.

  He searched the grounds, his movements a blur of controlled energy. He sought her in the small orchard, by the watering trough in the fields, amidst the ripening rice paddies – but she was nowhere to be found.

  He returned to the house, his gaze falling upon the crimson lantern that hung from the cherry tree. It was a sight he remembered from countless evenings spent in her company.

  The lantern was neglected, dusted with the careless droppings of birds. He brushed them away gently, a pang of sadness twisting in his chest.

  The kitchen was similarly disordered. The earthenware jars held the stench of rotting produce.

  His mother was a woman of meticulous habits, a steward of her own domain. It was unthinkable that she would allow such disarray to fester.

  And more unsettling was that his late father's urn was also missing. He couldn't find it in this house.

  A chilling realization settled upon him. She had been gone for a considerable time. Where had she gone?

  He raced to the nearest neighbor, Auntie Lauw, a woman burdened with three children - two grown, the youngest a lad barely older than himself. Their home lay a scant ten li (roughly three kilometers) distant. Years spent under the strict guidance of Lou Siat had kept him largely isolated, denying him the simple pleasures of childhood companionship. He knew Auntie Lauw only through the fleeting celebrations of Lunar New Year, occasions when his mother would readily engage in conversation.

  Auntie Lauw’s dwelling mirrored his own – a humble farmstead with a large courtyard for drying rice, beans, and grains. He entered through the gate, bowing respectfully.

  “Auntie Lauw, greetings! Han Sen pays his respects!”

  A woman, perhaps forty years of age, emerged from within. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

  “Sen-er! Oh, my! Sen-er! Alas!” she exclaimed, her voice thick with grief. “Your mother… she’s vanished! Gone without a trace!”

  “Vanished? How… what happened?”

  “I don’t know. Three, perhaps four months ago, she simply did not return. We've visited your home, but it's always empty. A heart-wrenching sight.

  And you… where have you been?”

  “I was with my master, ” Han Sen replied, his expression softening with a touch of concern.

  Auntie Lauw was astonished by his strong will, but inside her heart, she said, “But the sorrow in his eyes is profound. Deeper than any I've seen in one so young.”

  “My own life held peril, but my mother... she was untouched by such dangers!” Han Sen thought, steeling his resolve.

  “Were there… bandits?” he asked, his voice carefully controlled.

  “Not that we’ve seen. Your home appeared undisturbed. Furthermore, countless soldiers from Luoyang have been traversing our village roads on their way to Guangling. Bandits would scarcely risk confrontation with such a presence.”

  The usually stoic Han Sen felt a tremor of despair, a yearning to weep for his lost mother. Yet, he forced himself to maintain composure in Auntie Lauw’s presence.

  “There is one thing,” she continued, wiping a tear from her eye. “We reported her disappearance to the Magistrate of the district, who is stationed in Baihe Li. My brother, Hok Si Beng, is a merchant there. He was the one I asked to send word initially. I am unsure what action the Magistrate has taken, but you can inquire of him. Tell him you were sent by me, Hok San Lauw.”

  Auntie Lauw regarded Han Sen with a strange mixture of pity and admiration. He possessed a bearing far beyond that of her own son, a quiet strength that hinted at hidden depths. His physique was more robust, his stature taller. She felt a surge of compassion for the young man, stripped of his mother’s care.

  Han Sen bowed slightly, his hands pressed to his chest. “Thank you, Auntie Lauw. Han Sen bids farewell and will now proceed to Baihe Li.”

  He strode onward along the solitary path that snaked through the village to the North. The distance to Baihe Li was roughly fifty li (approximately sixteen kilometers), a journey that would consume half a day for a common traveler. But with the effortless grace of the Five Winds technique, he arrived at the bustling market town within the hour. Along the road, Han Sen didn't meet anyone else. The road was deserted.

  Baihe Li was a confluence of farmers, bringing their harvests to be traded by the merchants who, in turn, shipped them onward. The closest major city was Chuzhou, north of the sprawling metropolis of Guangling. The times were harsh, the population depleted by the devastation of An Lushan’s rebellion.

  Soldiers, hulking figures armed with swords and spears, patrolled the roads, a constant reminder of Imperial power. To the common folk of a small village like Baihe Li, soldiers were figures of fear, their whims to be obeyed.

  Too often, this power was abused – women were violated, and food was extorted without payment. A little authority in a remote place could inflate the spirit of a man to a feeling of being a God.

  As twilight bled across the Baihe Plain, Han Sen arrived at its humble settlement, Baihe Li. The village held only two merchants, each a solitary beacon in the fading light. Kwok An Tang, a man of considerable wealth and a local big trader, held dominion over the plain. Beside him stood Hok Si Beng, a smaller trader, his shop a quiet counterpoint at the far end of the dusty road. Their businesses faced each other, a silent rivalry etched in stone and thatch – one at the northern edge, the other at the southern. Between them lay the modest office and residence of the regional magistrate.

  Han Sen, guided by a keen intuition honed by years of travel, swiftly located Hok Si Beng’s shop, a small, unadorned structure at the southern end of the left side of the road. The walls were of rough-hewn stone and earth, the roof a patchwork of reeds, revealing a humble existence.

  "Greetings," Han Sen announced, his voice clear and respectful at the shop's closed door. "I am Han Sen, seeking Uncle Hok Si Beng, sent by Auntie Hok San Lauw." The shop was shuttered, its wares neatly tucked away, the door secured against the encroaching night.

  A man, his middle years etched onto a comfortable frame, emerged from the shadows. His gaze lingered on the young man standing before his livelihood.

  “So, you’ve been sent by A Lauw? Come, step inside.” Uncle Beng beckoned. Han Sen bowed his head slightly and followed the man into the shop, which also served as his home.

  “You are Han Sen? What brings you here?” Uncle Beng’s question was laced with a subtle curiosity.

  “Uncle Beng,” Han Sen began, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, “I am Siu Chen’s son. Auntie Lauw said my mother vanished three or four months ago. She instructed me to seek your counsel and the news after you had reported this to the magistrate. Has there been any news, Uncle?” His voice trembled, betraying the turmoil within.

  Though young, Han Sen bore the weight of worry like an old man’s cloak.

  "Sen-er," Uncle Beng sighed, his expression softening with pity. "The magistrate has offered no reply. The evening deepens; you should stay here for the night. Tomorrow, I will seek him out and inquire after any word of your mother. You can share a room with my son, Tek Liong."

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  “I am indebted to you, Uncle Beng,” Han Sen replied, his voice brimming with gratitude.

  Uncle Beng regarded Han Sen with a thoughtful gaze. “By the Heavens,” he thought, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “If only A Liong possessed even a fraction of this young man’s courtesy.” He secretly hoped that, through association, his son might learn a measure of grace. Such refinement was rare, usually found only amongst those who dwelt in the capital, near the Imperial Palace. But in the countryside, amidst the fields and the rough-hewn lives of the farmers, such decorum was rarely observed.

  “A Liong! Come down!” Uncle Beng called out, his voice booming through the small space.

  “Yes, Father,” a slender, lanky youth appeared, noticeably taller than Han Sen.

  “A Liong, this is Han Sen, sent by Auntie Lauw. He will be staying with us for a while. Prepare a room for him to share.” Uncle Beng gestured towards Han Sen.

  “I am Han Sen,” Han Sen offered, executing a respectful bow. Uncle Beng’s face brightened at the display of courtesy, a quality so seldom seen in these parts.

  “I… I am Hok Tek Liong,” the boy stammered, clearly unused to such formality but intimidated by his father's imposing presence.

  “Now, ascend and accompany Liong-er. Join us for dinner later.” Uncle Beng’s voice was gentle this time.

  “I thank you, Uncle Beng,” Han Sen bowed once more and made his departure.

  Tek Liong, eager for a new companion, reached out a hand and guided Han Sen up the creaking stairs. Once within his room on the third floor, Tek Liong’s youthful curiosity could no longer be contained.

  “Where are you from? Who sent you? Why have you come? What have you seen on your journey?”

  “I hail from the far reaches of the Baihe Plain,” Han Sen replied, his voice even. "I journeyed alone, seeking news of my missing mother. I saw nothing of consequence on the road.”

  “Indeed. The roads have grown quiet these days. No commotion, save when the Imperial troops march through. We all must remain indoors then. Those who dare to wander face a beating!”

  “A beating? For being on the road?”

  “Hmph. Soldiers and magistrates alike are as one. We, the common folk, are but dogs in the street, subject to their whims.” He spat on the floor. "That Kang Seng Kok, the magistrate, surrounds himself with brutes. His son, Kang Lok Kiam, is even worse – a hothead, quick to strike.”

  “And what happens to those who defy them?”

  “Lok Kiam summons his father’s enforcers. The entire household can be beaten!”

  “Surely a magistrate should serve the people! Their oaths bind them to the Emperor, to the people!” Han Sen’s voice carried a quiet indignation.

  “Bah! Here, they are the rulers! It is we who must serve them!”

  Han Sen shook his head. It was a sad truth – those who held power so often abused it, straying from the righteous path.

  Those who wander from the Dao possess only emptiness, he thought. What true accomplishments can they achieve?

  “Bah... Han Sen, why do you reek so strongly?” Tek Liong wrinkled his nose. “Have you not bathed in months?”

  A wave of shame washed over Han Sen. He might have appeared poised and refined, like a prince within a palace, but the truth was he had gone months without a proper cleansing. He’d only managed to splash himself in streams, always hurried, fearful of wild beasts.

  “There’s a bath down there,” Tek Liong said, gesturing towards the back of the shop. They both went there. “A small enclosure.” With profuse thanks, Han Sen stripped off his clothes and gratefully plunged into the cool, refreshing water, his internal qi swirling to ward off the chill.

  Tek Liong, pleased with his new roommate, retrieved the old shirt that was slightly too small for him to be given to Han Sen. It fit snugly, a small comfort in his unfamiliar surroundings.

  A woman's voice drifted up from below.

  “Eh, that's Mother calling. It's time for supper. Come down.” Tek Liong beckoned. Han Sen obediently followed, descending to the main room where the Hok family was gathered around a round table laden with steaming dishes.

  “Come, sit, eat!” Uncle Beng urged. His wife bustled about, her movements surprisingly nimble. She glanced at Han Sen, noting his fresh, clean appearance and a faint hint of handsome charm. She imagined the women of the village would soon be whispering about the newcomer.

  “Han Sen, this is my wife. You may call her Auntie Sian.” Uncle Beng announced.

  “Greetings, Auntie Sian,” Han Sen bowed respectfully. Auntie Sian was taken aback by the young man’s manners. She had rarely encountered such grace and refinement in a boy of the countryside.

  “Han Sen, do not be shy. Consider yourselves as family. Come, eat, Sen-er.” Auntie Sian’s voice was warm and welcoming.

  The family ate heartily, savoring Auntie Sian’s delicious cooking. Han Sen almost shouted, "Very delicious, Auntie!"

  When the meal was finished, Uncle Beng turned to Han Sen, eager to hear of his travels.

  Han Sen recounted his journey through the Baihe Plain, mentioning the arrival of his master, Lou Siat, and the invitation to the Pagoda. He omitted, however, the details of his arduous martial arts training and the perilous trials he had faced within the Pagoda of Nine Awareness. Uncle Beng and Auntie Sian assumed he had merely journeyed to the pagoda for religious observance, a common practice amongst Taoists.

  “A fine thing, seeking enlightenment at the pagoda. But know this: now it is the respect for the Emperor that is foremost in everyone’s minds,” Uncle Beng declared. “Now, even the magistrates have become priests, ministers of the Imperial will.”

  "Shouldn't they be governing?" Han Sen asked, his voice echoing the melancholy in his heart.

  “They prioritize reverence for the Emperor above just governance,” replied Uncle Beng, his face etched with weary resignation. The old man ran a small trading post in this village, his wisdom born from years of observing the ebb and flow of human nature.

  "How can officials demand the people’s reverence for the Emperor if they themselves neglect their duty to govern justly? Does a ruler not honor themselves through righteous deeds?" Han Sen pressed, his brow furrowed in frustration. Uncle Beng offered a rueful smile.

  “Sometimes, young one, it is easier to command others than to act oneself,” he sighed, the weight of countless disappointments heavy on his shoulders. “They perform the outward rituals of piety, yet the Emperor remains ignorant of their true actions, the shameful deeds done in his name."

  “Surely, not all officials are like that, Uncle,” Han Sen insisted, clinging to a flicker of hope.

  “No, not all. But to find an official of true virtue and fairness in these troubled times is like searching for a needle in a mountain of straw,” Uncle Beng replied, his voice tinged with sadness. “Even with the best intentions, one may lack the ability to govern and order with true wisdom.”

  "Then surely a righteous swordsman will rise to punish the wicked," Han Sen declared, imagining himself as a heroic eradicator of injustice.

  "Hahaha, it is not so simple, Han Sen. The Empire is a vast Dragon, defending all its parts, even its failings," Uncle Beng chuckled, shaking his head. "No single swordsman can stand against the might of an entire kingdom.”

  "Then how can corruption be corrected?" Han Sen questioned, his youthful idealism clashing with the harsh realities of the world.

  "One cannot straighten what is bent without first understanding the difference between straight and crooked," Uncle Beng explained, spreading his hands as if encompassing his entire shop. “To correct a corrupt official, one must first understand the intricacies of governance, the art of making just decisions."

  He pointed towards his trading post. "Just as with trade. All can explain its essence: buying and selling. However, few truly grasp the science of commerce – how to navigate adversity, solve problems, and remain honest, fair, benefiting both the buyer and the seller. It takes years to master.”

  “The same holds for governing. It is not simply about making decisions that appease the people, just as a merchant does not strive to please the buyer solely for the sake of making a sale. Officials, like merchants, must consider countless other factors, often beyond the understanding of the populace. They must foresee the ripples of cause and effect, shaping the future for better or worse.

  Therefore, one needs wisdom. Han Sen, tell me, do you know how to reckon numbers, the very foundation of the art of trade?"

  Han Sen’s expression shifted to one of bewildered surprise. He had dedicated his life to understanding the Dao, the teachings of Confucius, the tenets of Buddhism, mastering the flow of qi, and honing his martial skills. But the precise language of commerce was foreign to him.

  "I... I have studied much of the Dao and Confucius, Uncle," he confessed, honesty coloring his words.

  “Excellent, excellent! Such a study is valuable. But can you create something? Can you provide something, as a merchant does?”

  "One who embraces the teachings of Confucius can trade more justly, Uncle Beng," Han Sen offered.

  “Perhaps. But can they win at trade? Can they sustain themselves in the long run? What happens when they face a cunning merchant, one who employs deceit?”

  “Eh, well... if there is a dishonest merchant, wouldn’t one seek the aid of a swordsman?”

  “And then what? Engage in a fight of blades? Does a fight truly ensure a thriving trade?”

  "Yes, but... usually, isn't it so? Merchants often employ martial artists for protection?"

  “If a merchant relies on the strength of arms, does that truly represent the principles of fair trade, the genuine art of benefiting all? Does it not corrupt the practice, shielding them from the need to strive for just dealings?” Uncle Beng exclaimed, his passion momentarily eclipsing his usual calm.

  He rarely had such engaging conversations with his own son, a young man indifferent to his wisdom. Han Sen, however, listened with a genuine eagerness that warmed the old man's heart.

  Uncle Beng hadn’t anticipated that his simple explanations would provoke such a profound reaction in the young man. He realized that despite having ascended the trials of the Pagoda, Han Sen had yet to truly apply his knowledge to benefit those around him, to uplift the people of the land.

  To be skilled in martial arts, to possess the strength to confront others – what use was it? Farmers cultivated the grains and livestock that nourished a warrior. His mother spun, wove, and sewed the clothes he wore. Merchants, utilizing their knowledge, provided the necessities of life for all.

  What genuine contribution did a swordsman make? And now, as Han Sen stood before him, what purpose did his vast understanding of qi serve? What were his weapon techniques? How could they be applied to create something virtuous and useful?

  His gaze fell upon his broken blade, the Lightning Sword, shattered into four pieces.

  Was he too broken? Utterly useless in contributing to the true betterment of society?

  A profound emptiness settled within Han Sen, a hollowness that resonated deep within his soul. Was this Wu Wei? Did this emptiness, this seeming void, hold a hidden purpose?

  He thought about his own home, and suddenly, it felt profoundly, irrevocably hollow.

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