The winters in the Northern Jain Kingdom were merciless, slicing through the tattered rags of the impoverished like cruel knives gliding through flesh. As winter cloaked the slums in a chilling white veil, the once-familiar muddiness of their paths transformed into perilously slick ice, turning every step into a gamble with fate. Each breath of the frosty air was sharp and biting, mingling with the acrid scent of smoke and the persistent stench of rotting fish. This miasma clung to the ragged clothing of the children huddled together for warmth, their shivering forms shadows against the stark landscape of despair.
In this frigid hellscape, a boy named Fu Heng surveyed the dreary world around him with eyes that mirrored the steel of a general surveying a battlefield, a sunken face betraying the weight of his thirteen years and the burdens they carried. No family name marked him, no home offered refuge—only the instinct to survive another day burned brightly within him.
The market was a cacophony of lament and hunger, where hope flickered briefly at the baker's stall, the richest target amidst the squalor. Fresh loaves steamed temptingly in the morning air, their warm, yeasty aroma taunting the starving souls who teetered at the edge of desperation. Most beggars rushed in like moths drawn to a flame, only to be brutally beaten back by the baker's tattered broom, an embodiment of the indifference that ruled their lives.
Fu Heng, however, was not like the rest. He was a hawk among doves, keenly watching every movement with the attentiveness of a shadow in the dark. He studied the baker's patterns—how the man would turn his head to scold a drunkard with slurred insults, timing his gaze just as the guards shifted their attention to a merchant's raucous argument. Every detail was etched into Fu Heng's mind: the loose floorboard in the nearby alley, the worn grate that led to the river, his escape routes meticulously mapped.
"Little Wen," he whispered to the shivering girl beside him, whose small frame quaked in the chill. Her wide, frightened eyes looked up at him, glistening with moisture that promised tears yet unspilled. "When I poke your shoulder, scream about rats in your clothes."
She nodded, though fear clutched at her throat.
"Li, you trip the guard." Fu Heng said.
"The rest of you run after the bread is gone, not before," he instructed, his voice steady but laced with an underlying tremor of urgency. The others crowded close, their breaths puffing out in clouds, embodying a fragile alliance forged in hardship.
As they awaited their moment, Fu Heng couldn't help but steal glances at the faces of his companions. Each one bore the marks of their existence—sunken cheeks, filthy skin, and eyes dulled by deprivation yet filled with the indefatigable flicker of youthful hope. They were more than just a group of starving children; they were fragments of a broken world, linked together by the thin thread of survival.
The deep toll of a bell echoed through the square, signaling his heart to quicken. The baker turned, irritation creasing his brow as he scolded the fishmonger. Fu Heng's heart raced, each beat a drum of urgency. He crouched lower behind the broken cart, holding his breath as his finger hovered over Wen's shoulder, ready to ignite the chaos that would grant them fleeting sustenance.
"Now," he said, tapping her lightly.
Wen erupted into frantic screams about rats, instant terror spilling from her small frame as the guards spun around, their attention snagged by her cries. With the baker distracted and chaos unfurling, Fu Heng motioned with precision. "Go!" he urged softly, embodying the fierce spirit of a commander leading his troops into the fray.
As the others dashed toward the stall, Fu Heng remained poised, caught in the delicate balance between guilt and necessity. The bitter realization washed over him: their survival was bought with the currency of distress, an ever-revolving cycle of exploitation and desperation. Yet, in that fleeting moment, as he watched his friends rush toward the promise of bread, he held on to a fragile thread of hope, clinging to the idea that in every act of survival, they were not just enduring—they were alive.
The distraction worked. Seven loaves vanished into ragged sleeves before the baker caught on, the warm, yeasty scent mingling with the cold air of the marketplace.
That night, seven children gathered in a dim, crumbling room, the flicker of a small fire casting shadows on their hollow faces. They tore into the bread with desperation, savoring the warmth and softness that had eluded them for weeks. For a fleeting moment, laughter danced among them, a fragile thread of hope woven between bites. Yet, happiness is often a fickle ghost, and even the lightest joys are easily snuffed out.
The betrayal struck like the first true snowstorm, fierce and unforgiving. Winter deepened its grip on the city, a cruel blanket of white that concealed the gnawing hunger in their bellies. In such desperate times, allies turned into adversaries, driven by fear and survival.
Erzi—a small boy with hollow cheeks, his big eyes far too old for his tender age—stood among them, his frail body trembling with cold and sickness. His persistent cough had kept the group awake through long, agonizing nights, a haunting reminder of their plight. And now, desperation painted his features as he pointed at Fu Heng with trembling fingers, clutching a loaf that was both a prize and a curse.
"Him," Erzi whispered, his voice barely audible above the howling wind. "He's the thief."
With those words, the fragile bond of friendship shattered. The guards seized Fu Heng, their faces cold and unfeeling as they pulled him forward. The first blow landed hard, a brutal reminder of the world they inhabited. Snowflakes began to fall, transforming into a stark canvas that would soon bear witness to violence.
Fu Heng's cries were muffled by the howling wind and the relentless blows that rained down on him, each hit a betrayal of trust, each gasp a reminder of what they had once shared. He curled into himself, desperate to shield his wounds, the snow around him turning pink with the warmth of his blood—an alarming contrast to the cold, lifeless backdrop of winter.
After the guards finally tired and left him crumpled in the snow, Fu Heng lay there, battered and broken, ribs cracked, blood freezing on his lips. He didn't cry. Tears were a luxury for children who still believed in mercy, and belief was a privilege long stripped from him.
Hours later, the Martial Pavilion Elder found him, half-buried in the snowdrift, a solitary figure of despair amidst the swirling flakes. As he passed through the city on his way to the border, he had little interest in street rats, dismissing them as mere ghosts of the forgotten. But something about Fu Heng's stillness caught his eye.
"Still breathing, gutter rat?" the Elder asked, his voice gravelly, as if it had been shaped by a thousand hard winters.
With a pained effort, Fu Heng spat blood onto the man's polished boots. "Fuck off," he gasped, each breath jagged, a sharp knife of pain.
To his surprise, the Elder laughed—a harsh, cruel sound like stones scraping together—and hoisted him up by the collar, lifting him from the frigid embrace of the snow. "Good. Hate's sharper than hunger," he said, an odd gleam in his eyes.
Even in that vulnerable state, Fu Heng's gaze remained defiant. He registered every detail—the sword at the Elder's hip, the sway of his robes filled with hidden coin, the flickering shadows on his face.
"You gonna hit me too, old man?" Fu Heng rasped, his spirit flickering like a candle in the wind.
"No," the Elder replied, a strange chuckle rumbling in his chest. "I'm going to teach you how to hit back."
In that moment, a flicker of hope ignited in Fu Heng's chest, but it was dulled by the bitter taste of betrayal still lingering on his tongue. He had lost everything, yet somehow—perhaps through the pain—he might find a way to rise again.
The Azure Lotus Sect's training yards were infused with the rich aroma of sandalwood and the sharp tang of sweat—far more inviting than the stench of piss and rotting fish that haunted his past. Disciples adorned in crisp linen robes moved with purpose, their faces round and full from hearty meals, a stark contrast to the ragged figures Fu Heng once knew.
"Look!" one of the Zhao cousins guffawed, pointing as Fu Heng struggled to hold the basic stance. "The Elder brought back a stray!"
Fu Heng flashed a wide grin. "Better a stray than inbred trash."
Another young master from the Zhao branch sneered, "Did the Elder pluck you from a gutter?"
Fu Heng's smile only widened. "Yeah. Want me to show you the view?"
The ensuing fight left him sporting a black eye and two loose teeth, but he gleaned an important lesson: words were like knives, but only if you knew how to wield them.
Days later, during the awakening ceremony, his bloodline stirred to life: the Jade Sage General—a high-level Variant grade bloodline famed not for brute strength or blinding speed, but for cunning strategy. With that revelation, the Elder stepped into his life as a mentor.
"Your body is weak," the old man stated, tossing him a wooden sword. "But your mind isn't. Use it."
One moment, the Elder's sword was a streaking blur. The next—
Fu Heng saw it approach.
Suddenly, he was dodging a strike, time itself stretching and bending around him. He felt the micro-tremble in the Elder's wrist—an imminent feint. The slight drag of his right foot hinted at a lunge. The movements unfurled in his mind like an ancient scroll, each action as predictable as dawn. Yet, even with all this foresight, his body struggled to keep pace.
This wasn't foresight; it was strategy unfolding.
The Elder's sword halted a breath away from his throat. "Took you long enough."
Three years of dedication forged Fu Heng from a starving street thief into a force to be reckoned with.
By day, he drilled forms until his hands were raw. By night, he immersed himself in the Pavilion's battle treatises, cross-referencing centuries of cunning tactics like a master strategist laying plans for war.
Other disciples labeled it obsession.
Fu Heng understood their ignorance. They didn't see the fire in his eyes—a fire born from the hunger that had kept him alive in the slums. In the depths of poverty, hesitation meant starvation. Here, it meant death. The mask of the playful fool slipped on easily—a quip to disarm, self-deprecation to lower their defenses. Let them chuckle at the beggar turned disciple—until, in the ring, he dismantled them piece by piece.
The Elder recognized this as his way of coping with the ghosts of his past. "You're wasting time with this charade," he grumbled one night as they debated strategy over scrolls.
Fu Heng shrugged casually. "Better they underestimate me."
The Elder snorted, eyes narrowing. "And when they stop?"
His smile faded slightly. "Then they'll regret it."
The very next morning found Fu Heng in the training ground, sparring relentlessly.
"Your footwork's sloppy," he mocked Cheng Hei during their practice, watching the other man's smirk falter. "Like a drunk whore trying to curtsey."
Eight swift moves later, the fight concluded.
Later, the Elder discovered him icing his knuckles. "Was the insult necessary?"
Fu Heng chuckled. "No. But it was fun."
The Martial Competition's gong reverberated through Blossom City, sending a thrill through the air.
Leaning against the competitors' rail, Fu Heng observed the opening matches with half-lidded eyes, his mind sharp. Liu Jian favored wide swings—leave him an opening on the right. Zhao Xue hesitated after feints—press in immediately. That outer disciple from the western branch tensed his shoulders before—
The echoes of the competition rang in his ears, each match a tapestry of strategy unfolding before him, and Fu Heng, the once-inferior stray, was ready to weave his own tale of triumph. Just then
"Fu Heng versus Ma Rong!" The announcer's voice boomed through the crowded arena, igniting a mix of excitement and tension among the spectators.
Across the makeshift arena, his opponent stood like a formidable mountain, a towering figure from the sect's mining division. Ma Rong's brawny arms were coiled with muscle, and his knuckles bore the scars of countless battles against the unyielding rocks of the mountains he toiled in. Each scar told a story of strength and resilience, a testament to his fierce dedication.
As Fu Heng sauntered forward, a confident smirk played at the corners of his mouth. His demeanor radiated an air of nonchalant bravado, contrasting sharply with the towering figure poised to confront him. The crowd leaned forward, their whispers echoing in anticipation, their faces illuminated by the flickering torches that lined the arena.
Ma Rong cracked his neck, a low, menacing sound that reverberated through the air. "I'll make it quick, beggar," he taunted, his voice deep and gravelly, filled with the promise of violence.
Fu Heng let out a theatrical yawn, a gesture laced with disdain. "Promises, promises," he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he casually positioned himself, ready to face the massive opponent. The tension in the arena thickened, the excitement of the impending clash palpable in every breath taken by the onlookers.