“Let us wait over there,” Uncle Beng said, gesturing towards the empty expanse they had recently traversed. “Let the Imperial guard handle these brigands.” The two carriage drivers nodded, guiding the laden wagons towards the designated spot.

  Han Sen questioned, “We are not proceeding directly to Luoyang, Uncle?”

  “Err... no, no. It is better to await the arrival of the guard,” Si Beng replied, his voice betraying a lingering nervousness. He still seemed ill at ease speaking with Han Sen.

  “Uncle, do not fear. I remain as I am,” Han Sen reassured him.

  “That… ah. Forgive uncle. Perhaps, all of this is too overwhelming, too weighty for me to comprehend,” Si Beng admitted. “You see, Han Sen, in this world, like attracts like. Possessing your martial prowess, others of great standing will inevitably seek you out.”

  “I am not afraid of you, Han Sen. I am grateful and pleased to have encountered you. But now, I do not know if I can face the powerful figures who will come calling.”

  “What manner of powerful figures?” Han Sen pressed.

  “Haehhh… even with your strength, you are still young, Han Sen. You do not yet understand the workings of the world. Now that Master Ouwyang Lu has witnessed your abilities, do you believe he would simply let it be?” Beng asked, his tone laced with apprehension.

  Han Sen fell silent, his mind churning. His martial skill had been revealed to Ouwyang Lu. Then what?

  “Han Sen, when I was a young man, I was once a disciple of a martial academy in Chuzhou. My master taught me that the jianghu is divided into two categories: those who rely on the strength of their body and bone to cultivate martial arts, and those who possess qi, an internal power within them. It is not a gift granted to all. Only a few are born with bodies suited to it.”

  “I believe your master recognized something special in you. Han Sen, you are a rare jewel in this world. Even the lineage of an Emperor might not possess a body capable of channeling qi as you do.”

  “Forgive me, Han Sen, but I cannot involve myself in matters concerning your power,” Beng concluded, abruptly turning away, unwilling to prolong the conversation.

  A wave of disappointment washed over Han Sen. His martial skill, his strength, had become a barrier, distancing him from Uncle Beng. What of his life in Baihe Li? What of his mother’s uncertain fate?

  The bitter resentment propelled Han Sen forward, past the fallen forms of the bandits, each rendered helpless by Master Ouwyang Lu’s swift blade. He approached the leader and his two companions, slumped beneath a sprawling tree, their limbs rendered useless, the flow of their qi deliberately disrupted.

  "Well, young whelp," the bandit leader rasped, his voice strained, “come to gawk at the dying?” His hands were useless, his legs numb from the crippling strike.

  "How much wickedness have you committed? What drove you to this path?" Han Sen questioned, his voice quiet, edged with a weary sadness.

  "Wickedness? Who is wicked?" a bandit on the right retorted, his voice laced with bitterness. "Those who deceived us, soldiers sworn to serve, who broke their promises! They are the wicked!"

  "A promise is a promise," another bandit countered. "The honor of a warrior is more sacred than the philosophies of a palace. If General Guo Ziyi could not uphold his word, who are we to blame for taking what is owed?”

  “General Guo Ziyi…breaking a promise?” Han Sen inquired, his gaze unwavering.

  “General Guo Ziyi sought aid from the Uyghurs," the bandit leader spat out. “We were promised a princess and ten thousand rolls of silk. We vowed, 'If you fail to deliver, we will burn this city to the ground.' But when the war ended, and Emperor Suzong claimed victory, that scoundrel chose to enrich the Buddhist monasteries instead!"

  "Hah! And then we raided those very monasteries! A taste of their own medicine! Why did they not pay what was promised? We travelled far from our homes in Uyghur, and what did we receive? Treachery!"

  Han Sen fell silent. The intricacies of General Guo Ziyi, the involvement of Uyghur soldiers – it was all a bewildering fog. He comprehended nothing of the grand machinations that fueled such conflict.

  Curiosity, a persistent whisper within him, drew him back to Uncle Beng. Surely, the old man knew something of this tangled web of events?

  "Uncle Beng," Han Sen began, his tone casual, yet carrying an underlying urgency. "Do you know what transpired with the war, with the presence of the Uyghurs?" But instead of enlightenment, this uncle furrowed his brow in troubled thought.

  "It was a war, boy," he said, his voice tinged with a deep sadness. “A war that bled every man dry, demanded their contributions, and forced their sons into the endless maw of battle, only to be swallowed whole.” He paused, a sigh escaping his lips. “I do not know the specifics. We of Baihe Li understand nothing of warfare, save for the presence of soldiers who bleed the people dry, claiming it is for the glory of the Empire.”

  Han Sen's thoughts drifted, reflecting on the unrest in Chang’an, the rebellion where his father fell as a hero, a truth shrouded in darkness for his mother and himself, who clung to the hope of his father’s return. They understood nothing of the events that led to his passing, nothing of the forces that conspired against him.

  They received only ashes. And silence. No explanation, no closure. The weight of unspoken grief settled heavily upon his young shoulders, a reminder of the vast and cruel world he had yet to fully understand.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Several hours passed, and Master Ouwyang Lu returned, accompanied by two hundred men. They brought several large carts fitted with cages, and upon arrival, the bandits were swiftly secured within.

  "Hok Si Beng," Ouwyang Lu addressed him, a courteous smile gracing his lips. "We are ready to depart once more. And tell me, young man, what is your name?"

  “Han Sen, esteemed Master,” Han Sen replied, bowing respectfully.

  “Han Sen, is it? Your martial arts are remarkably refined. Perhaps, upon our arrival in Luoyang, we can speak further? Hok Si Beng, do you object? Rest assured, all orders will be received, and payment will be rendered.”

  "Thank you, Master," Si Beng responded with a deferential bow.

  "Men, advance!" Ouwyang Lu commanded. The two hundred soldiers moved forward, the bandit prisoners confined within the carts, while Hok Si Beng's company followed behind.

  The journey to Luoyang was measured and slow, and it was only when twilight painted the sky that they finally passed through the city gates. They proceeded toward the government supply depot, intended for the newly appointed magistrate, Liang Si Kiok, who held sway over the Luoyang gates.

  Han Sen readily assisted in unloading the goods from the carts and ferrying them into the warehouse. The night was deep, and no warehouse staff remained to lend a hand. Yet, fueled by his strength and agility, the task was completed with surprising speed.

  Hok Si Beng watched Han Sen, a single tael of silver held in his hand.

  “Han Sen,” Si Beng said, his voice gentle. “Accept this... I am deeply indebted to you.”

  "Uncle…" Han Sen murmured.

  “You are expected by Master Ouwyang Lu, are you not? It is best that we part ways here. Perhaps, should fortune smile, we shall meet again.”

  Han Sen immediately knelt and performed a series of kowtows toward his Uncle Beng.

  “The kindness of Uncle Beng is vast, and Han Sen has received much grace. I offer my heartfelt thanks,” he declared.

  "Han Sen, take this as well. It is also payment for your efforts," Si Beng insisted, pushing that tael of silver into Han Sen’s outstretched hand. The young man, barely sixteen years of age, reluctantly accepted the offering.

  That night, they parted. Han Sen turned toward the left side of Luoyang, while Si Beng headed toward a nearby inn. He would collect his payment in the morning, then return to Baihe Li.

  Han Sen found himself adrift, unfamiliar with the ways of a city, never having stayed in an inn. He walked for nearly five li, then stumbled upon a courtyard enclosed by high walls and a massive black iron gate. A terrace overlooked the courtyard, its floor covered in polished wood.

  Weary and drowsy, Han Sen collapsed upon the terrace, settling himself for rest. He regulated his breathing, feeling the slow, deliberate flow of his qi. His eyes closed, and sleep claimed him swiftly.

  The next morning, Han Sen was roused by the jarring impact of a broom handle against his face.

  "Hey, young man, why do you sleep here? Do you know what place this is?" a raspy voice of an old man chided, as Han Sen blinked himself awake. He saw an old servant.

  “Oh, forgive me… what place is this?” Han Sen inquired.

  “How can you simply sleep here, without a glance to see where you are?” the old servant snapped again.

  “Lao ye, forgive me, it was dark late last night, I couldn’t read any signs,” Han Sen replied.

  “Haaeehh, you can’t read?” the old servant exclaimed, stomping his foot. “These youngsters these days, so foolish!”

  “Eh, it’s not quite like that, lao ye…” Han Sen turned toward the gate, his gaze rising. There, carved into the wooden board above, were the clear characters: LONG MEN PAI Martial Academy -- it seemed imposing and grand.

  "This is the grounds of Long Men Pai,” the old servant said with a touch of pride. “You should know, it is the most renowned martial academy in Luoyang.” He puffed out his chest slightly. “Even the sons of generals come here to learn the martial arts.”

  “Oh, old sir, I was unaware,” Han Sen said, bowing his head slightly.

  “Hmm… you appear strong. Your body is covered in grime. Are you a worker at the marketplace? You smell of onions,” the old servant remarked. Indeed, after a night of hauling goods, Han Sen’s clothes and body carried the scent.

  “Would you be interested in working here? As it happens, Tek Tek broke his arm yesterday, falling from a height. You could take his place. It's not a bad deal; here, you’ll have fine clothes and two meals a day.”

  Han Sen’s jaw dropped. He’d barely woken, and now he was offered a job?

  The truth was, Han Sen had no home, no trade. Nor did he possess a clear purpose in his journey.

  The thought of meeting Master Ouwyang Lu stirred a quiet hesitation within him. He had heard tales of the man, and the memories of Baihe Li lingered, prompting him to distance himself from the affairs of government officials.

  If a man attacked with a sword, Han Sen held no fear. But how was one to face corrupt officials, to wield strength against such shadows? What recourse did he truly have?

  If he were to seek out Ouwyang Lu, wouldn't he simply become another tool to be used?

  And still, in the deepest recesses of his mind, Han Sen held the chilling images he had witnessed within the Pagoda of Nine Awareness. Visions of himself as a general, commanding legions, bringing ruin to countless lives.

  A tremor of fear lingered at his heart, born from that glimpse into a potential and terrifying future.

  Han Sen followed the old servant to the side, passing through a small wooden door.

  "Servant's entrance, from here, not the main gates. Main gates for disciples. What is your name?" the old man inquired.

  "My name is Han Sen," Han Sen replied.

  "Sen-er," the old man said, gesturing towards a folded pile of garments on a wooden bench. "You may wear Tek Tek’s clothes. They are there, neatly folded." He then pointed upwards. "Place your belongings here, then don your new attire and bathe up there.”

  "As you wish," Han Sen responded. He deposited his meager possessions, retrieved the clothing, and with a lightness born of practiced skill, ascended. The bathing quarters were a considerable distance above, yet to Han Sen, the climb presented no obstacle. Employing the lightness technique of the Five Winds movement, he moved as swiftly as the northern wind itself.

  The old man watched Han Sen depart, a bemused expression on his weathered face. He possessed no understanding of martial arts, nor the subtle art of lightness. Therefore, he felt no surprise at the swiftness with which Han Sen ascended, disappearing into the upper reaches of the courtyard.

  "Not bad, this one," the old man murmured to himself. "He is more nimble than Tek Tek, that is certain."

  The water’s chill had washed away the dust of the road and the grime of the load. Han Sen returned, refreshed, to the old man’s presence. Two steamed buns were pressed into his hands, warm and fragrant.

  “Eat these,” the old man instructed, his voice a low rumble. “As you eat, I will show you your duties. Your task is to cleanse this place, to follow rules, to obey all commands without question. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, lao ye,” Han Sen replied, his voice clear.

  “You will labor until the setting sun. Only works when there are no disciples around. When night falls, you will sleep in the chamber beyond the bench where we found the garments. Comprehend?”

  “Yes, lao ye.”

  A nod of approval passed from the old servant. "Good. Then follow me, and let us survey this place.”

  They walked through the Long Men Pai, a sprawling complex carved into the face of a sheer cliff. Buildings rose above them, tiered and imposing. Han Sen knew his task was immense – he was to sweep and cleanse every stone, every courtyard.

  And so it began. From that day forward, Han Sen became a servant of Long Men Pai, his days devoted to the unending toil of keeping the venerable halls pristine.

  up to Chapter 26 right now, plus enjoy exclusive AI illustrations and historical/philosophical background notes, please consider supporting me on Patreon.

  patreon.com/fourseasonsadvancechapters