“Ten thousand years to the Emperor! Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years!”

  The cry rose from the sea of kneeling officials—three thunderous waves crashing through the vast hall, silk robes rustling like autumn leaves in the wind.

  Yet one figure stood unbowed beside the Dragon Throne.

  Eunuch Li Fuguo—tall, lean, face smooth as polished jade despite his years—gazed over the court with half-lidded eyes.

  “Rise, my lords,” he said, voice clear and carrying, as though the words came from the throne itself.

  The officials stood.

  Emperor Daizong sat motionless upon the golden seat, dragon robes heavy upon his shoulders.

  His gaze rested upon the eunuch at his side.

  Resentment burned cold within—sharp as winter steel, yet powerless as mist.

  For years, Li Fuguo had held the reins of empire.

  Even when he was Crown Prince Li Chu—scholar of quiet halls, lover of poetry and the Book of Changes, abhorring the clash of arms—his father, Suzong, enthroned in distant Lingwu amid rebellion’s storm, had named him Supreme Commander of All Armies.

  What choice had there been?

  Empress Zhang and Li Fuguo had woven the web.

  They ensnared his younger brother Li Tan in false treason.

  The boy took his own life by imperial command.

  That day, fear had carved itself into Li Chu’s heart—cold, indelible.

  His name became Li Yu.

  Now he wore the yellow robe as Daizong.

  And still the eunuch stood taller.

  Li Fuguo had forced the title upon himself—Shangfu, Imperial Father.

  A eunuch named father to the Son of Heaven.

  The court accepted it.

  Daizong could not refuse.

  His only breath in this gilded cage came through another eunuch—Cheng Yuanzhen.

  Younger, smoother of tongue, Cheng moved freely where others feared to tread.

  He listened.

  He spoke softly of sympathy.

  Ambition glinted behind his eyes, yes—but ambition that might yet cut the older eunuch’s chains.

  In shadowed corners of the inner palace, whispers grew into plans.

  Careful plans.

  For Li Fuguo’s web was vast, his cruelty a legend carved in blood.

  Cheng began to reach out—quiet words to generals who remembered the rebellion’s cost, who chafed beneath eunuch rule.

  The court bowed to Li Fuguo’s will.

  The Emperor remained silent, confined to inner chambers, while the eunuch steered the realm’s course.

  Righteousness? Li Fuguo knew none.

  Only convenience.

  Victory over An Lushan had been bought with foreign blades—Uyghur horses, Turkic arrows, promises of silk and princesses.

  Now those allies came to collect.

  The treasury lay hollow—rebels had stripped Chang’an bare.

  The people, bled by war, could give no more.

  Li Fuguo’s answer: raise taxes higher, squeeze provinces dry, demand tribute from regional commanders.

  Even former rebels—Li Huaixian, Li Baochen, Tian Chengsi—were left to rule Hebei in peace.

  Cheaper than another war.

  The Tang could not afford one.

  Word of weakness travelled swift as wind across the western passes.

  To the Tibetan court.

  To Trisong Dets?n, king of Tubo.

  The Tang empire stood weary—its dragon dimmed, wings clipped.

  And in the high plateaus, snow lions sharpened their claws.

  Far from the gilded cage, beneath Phoenix Mountain’s quiet shadow, a youth walked a humble road.

  The dragon, free of chains, carried treasures unseen.

  And fate, patient as the mountain itself, drew its threads ever closer.

  Far to the south, in Tongzhou.

  The cart creaked to a halt at the edge of Tongzhou, dust settling like a gentle sigh upon the earth.

  Phoenix Mountain rose before them—ancient, verdant, cradling the small city in its quiet valley embrace.

  Eastward they turned, toward a dwelling that faced north.

  To the left, the mountain’s silent strength. To the west, the valley’s open breath. To the right, fallow fields dreaming beneath an autumn sky. To the east, the promise of tomorrow’s light.

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  A wide courtyard opened before the house—simple, weathered, yet waiting.

  Kim Tun’s uncle halted the horse.

  The old man, whose laughter had carried them across the miles, fell silent.

  Lines carved deeper into his brow, as though the mountain itself pressed upon his heart.

  Kim In clung to the cart’s edge, small fingers white.

  Han Sen felt the weight settle upon them all—like a lantern’s flame suddenly shielded from wind.

  Kim Tun descended slowly.

  He walked to the side gate and knelt—forehead touching cool earth.

  Three times he kowtowed, each movement heavy with years of unspoken grief.

  “Mother…”

  The gate creaked open.

  An elderly woman stood framed in fading light, hands trembling at her sides.

  At the sight of her son upon his knees, her own knees buckled.

  She knelt too, arms reaching.

  Mother and son embraced upon the ground—tears falling freely, years of separation pouring out in quiet, shuddering sobs.

  Han Sen stood beside the cart, throat tight as winter frost.

  He who had lost his mother to palace shadows felt the wound tear open anew.

  Tears blurred his vision—silent, burning.

  He had left her unprotected.

  Guilt rose like a tide, drowning the joy of this reunion he could only witness.

  Kim In slipped from the cart and ran to her father’s side.

  She knelt, small hands pressed to earth, mimicking the kowtow with childlike solemnity.

  “Grandmother…”

  The old woman’s eyes—red with weeping—found the girl.

  “This child…”

  “My daughter, Mother,” Kim Tun whispered, voice breaking like thin ice. “Your granddaughter… Kim In.”

  “O heavens… my little one…”

  The grandmother opened her arms.

  Kim In flew into them.

  The child wept against her chest—small frame shaking with joy too large for her heart, with sorrow for the mother she had lost, with wonder at this new embrace she had never known.

  “Grandmother…”

  “Bless the heavens,” the old woman murmured, stroking the girl’s hair with trembling fingers. “You have come home. Truly home.”

  Han Sen turned away, leading the horse deeper into the courtyard.

  His eyes burned.

  He had never known a grandmother’s arms.

  He had known only absence—fifteen years beneath a red lantern, waiting for a mother who might never return.

  Yet in this reunion—mother and son, grandmother and child—he felt the shape of what might have been.

  The mountain wind stirred gently, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain.

  Phoenix Mountain watched in silence.

  And in the gathering dusk, three generations wept together—grief and joy braided so tightly neither could be told from the other.

  Han Sen stood alone with the horse, tears tracing clean paths through road dust on his cheeks.

  One day, he promised the quiet valley.

  One day, his own arms would hold his mother again.

  Until then, he would carry this moment like a lantern in the dark.

  The road to Phoenix Mountain had brought them home.

  But for Han Sen, the true journey was only beginning.

  The courtyard still trembled with the afterglow of reunion—tears drying on cheeks, laughter soft as falling petals—when thunder arrived on horseback.

  A band of riders thundered through the gate, dust swirling like angry spirits.

  The leader reined in hard, horse snorting.

  “Heh, old woman! What delays you? Come out!”

  “Yes, out with you!” another barked. “No more stalling!”

  Kim Tun rose slowly, face darkening.

  “Mother… who are these men?”

  His mother’s voice quavered. “They covet this house. They claim it suits their martial school… that it pleases their eyes.”

  “Shameless dogs!” Kim Tun roared, stepping forward, fists clenched though his heart quailed.

  The leader sneered down from his saddle. “Who dares bark at us?”

  “I am Kim Tun, son of Kim Leng Pau, master of God’s Palm! This is my family home! You dare shout at my mother like curs?”

  “Your mother promised us this place!” the leader spat. “We come to collect.”

  “Lies!”

  “She said we could eat, drink, dwell here—her very words! That makes it ours.”

  “And the magistrate himself heard it!” another crowed, gesturing to a smug official lingering at the rear.

  “If we wish to found the Thousand Sabre Divine Hand Clan here, what can a fat merchant do?”

  Kim Tun faltered.

  He had no blade, no qi—only righteous fury and trembling hands.

  A clear voice cut the air like drawn steel.

  “Shameless rabble! You dare not even see the mountain before you?”

  Han Sen stepped forward, slender green-gold bamboo staff in hand—light as wind, steady as earth.

  The leader laughed. “Some stray pup barks now? Boy, do you seek a beating?”

  “Can you deliver one?” Han Sen asked, eyes calm as deep water.

  “Insolent whelp! Old man, don’t blame us when this brat lies broken—face swollen, bones cracked!”

  “Broken?” Han Sen’s voice carried faint mockery. “You mistake the mountain for a molehill.”

  “What—you the mountain?”

  “Not I. My uncle Kim Tun. You are too small even for me. Defeat me first—then perhaps you earn the right to face him.”

  “Arrogant pup! Stand aside!”

  “Words are wind. Dare you wager?”

  The leader’s eyes narrowed, greed flashing.

  “If you win, we leave forever. If I win—this house is ours.”

  Han Sen shook his head slowly. “Unfair. You risk nothing but pride.”

  “Then name your terms!”

  “If you win, take the house. If I win, you are forbidden forever from founding any clan in Tongzhou. Dare you accept?”

  The riders laughed—harsh, cruel.

  “A boy’s boast! Who fears you?”

  “Honored magistrate,” Han Sen said, bowing respectfully, “bear witness.”

  The official smirked, seeing only a sixteen-year-old youth.

  Thirty-four men dismounted.

  Sabres gleamed at their belts—rough blades, scarred hands.

  Bandits, not true martial artists.

  They formed a half-circle before the gate.

  Han Sen stood alone in the center, bamboo staff loose in his grip.

  “Toako, let me teach this pup,” a younger rider sneered.

  The elders hesitated—shame in striking a child.

  But greed won.

  The man drew his sabre, stance wide and brutal.

  Han Sen waited—no guard, no flourish. Only stillness.

  “Begin,” he said quietly.

  “Ciaaattt!”

  The sabre slashed down in a vicious arc.

  Han Sen shifted—one step, like wind parting grass.

  Bamboo staff flicked upward.

  It met the man’s jaw with clean, precise force.

  The rider crumpled, unconscious, before he hit stone.

  Silence fell.

  Kim Tun’s mother gasped.

  Kim In’s eyes widened.

  The leader’s face twisted.

  The fallen man’s groan had barely faded when the others surged forward.

  Sabres rasped from sheaths—thirty-three blades glinting in the courtyard’s dying light.

  Shameless greed burned in their eyes.

  They would drown the boy in numbers.

  The magistrate froze beside his horse, face drained of color.

  Han Sen spun the green-gold bamboo staff once—slow, deliberate.

  A clear, high note rang out—like a jade flute kissed by mountain wind.

  Even Han Sen paused, surprised.

  The staff sang beneath his qi—pure, resonant, as though it had waited years for this touch.

  Iron-layered sabres met bamboo.

  And bamboo held.

  The first attacker lunged.

  Han Sen flowed.

  Five Thunders surged through the staff—controlled, precise.

  Whistling wind.

  Crack of bone.

  The man flew backward, sabre spinning from numb fingers.

  Another followed—then three, then ten.

  They came as wolves.

  Han Sen met them as storm.

  Staff blurred—forehead, wrist, knee, throat.

  Bruises bloomed like dark flowers.

  Bones snapped like dry twigs.

  Groans rose in chorus.

  In heartbeats, thirty-three men lay scattered across the courtyard—moaning, crawling, blades forgotten.

  The magistrate’s horse whinnied, sensing blood.

  Han Sen stood untouched amid the wreckage, staff lowered, breath even.

  Silence fell, broken only by pained whimpers.

  He turned to the magistrate—pale, trembling, eyes wide as though staring at a ghost.

  “Esteemed sir,” Han Sen said, voice calm yet carrying new weight, “you witnessed the wager?”

  “I… yes,” the official stammered. “They… lost.”

  Kim Tun stepped forward, legs steadier than his heart.

  “The terms stand. They are banished from Tongzhou forever.”

  “Y-yes,” the magistrate whispered, sweat beading upon his brow.

  Han Sen’s gaze fell upon the heavy pouch at the fallen leader’s belt.

  Coins clinked within.

  He knelt, unfastened it, and rose.

  The magistrate’s eyes flicked—guilty, fearful.

  Han Sen weighed the pouch once, then extended it.

  “A token of gratitude, esteemed sir, for bearing witness.”

  The official’s hands shook as he took it.

  Coins bought silence.

  Coins bought a flight.

  “Our business is concluded,” Kim Tun said, voice firm.

  The magistrate needed no urging.

  “Away!” he bellowed at the groaning men. “Away from Tongzhou!”

  They rose—bruised, swollen, pride shattered—and clambered onto horses.

  Hooves thundered.

  Dust rose.

  They fled without a backward glance.

  The courtyard fell still.

  Kim Tun exhaled, long and trembling.

  Kim In peeked from behind her grandmother’s skirts, eyes wide with awe.

  The old woman pressed hand to heart.

  Han Sen lowered the staff.

  The dragon had spoken.

  And Tongzhou, beneath Phoenix Mountain’s quiet gaze, had listened.

  No more words were needed.

  The house remained theirs.

  And the road ahead lay open—wider than before.

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