Chapter 3: The Orphan in the Mountains
Five winters came and went. The small cabin that had once seemed a temporary refuge had become a home of sorts—austere and functional, but a home nonetheless. Outside, the first light of dawn painted the misty mountain peaks in hues of gold and amber. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and wild herbs.
"Again!" Zhou Ming's voice cut through the morning stillness.
In the clearing before the cabin, a small figure moved through a series of complex stances. Though only five years old, Zhi Fan displayed a coordination and focus that belied his tender age. His small, bare feet shifted across the dew-dampened earth with practiced precision as his tiny fists cut through the air.
"Your stance is too wide," Zhou Ming criticized, circling the child like a hawk. Though now approaching his mid-fifties, the former slave remained formidable—his body hardened by decades of martial training and the harsh mountain life. "If I were to push you now, you would fall. Balance is not just about standing, but about being able to move from any position."
To demonstrate his point, Zhou Ming's foot lashed out, sweeping Zhi Fan's legs from under him. The boy tumbled to the ground but rolled expertly back to his feet, assuming a defensive stance without complaint.
"Better," Zhou Ming nodded approvingly. "You learn quickly. Now, the Moving Cloud Steps again, from the beginning."
As Zhi Fan resumed the training sequence, Zhou Ming observed him with conflicted emotions. The boy was exceptional—learning in months what had taken Zhou Ming years to master. Whether this was due to the mysterious bloodlines of his parents or the crimson mark that still pulsed faintly on his chest, Zhou Ming could not say. What he knew with certainty was that he was raising a weapon—forging a blade of vengeance as he had sworn to do.
Yet in quiet moments like this, watching the child's determined face, Zhou Ming sometimes wondered if he was doing right by the boy. Zhi Fan had never known a parent's gentle touch or heard a lullaby at bedtime. His earliest memories were of training, of pushing his small body to its limits, of learning to endure pain without tears.
"Sifu," Zhi Fan's voice pulled Zhou Ming from his thoughts. The boy had completed the sequence and now stood waiting, his dark eyes serious beyond their years. "Was that better?"
Zhou Ming nodded. "Yes. You remembered the corrections. Now, it is time for breakfast, and then your meridian exercises."
The boy's face lit up at the mention of meridian exercises—the closest thing to cultivation training that Zhou Ming could offer. Though not a cultivator himself, Zhou Ming had observed enough during his time serving cultivator masters to understand the basics. Using the manual that Zhi Tian had entrusted to him, he began teaching Zhi Fan rudimentary qi circulation techniques.
Inside the cabin, their breakfast was simple: rice porridge with wild herbs and a few strips of dried venison. They ate in companionable silence, a routine established over the years. Zhou Ming had never been one for idle chatter, and Zhi Fan had adapted to his guardian's taciturn nature.
After the meal, Zhi Fan settled onto a woven mat in the corner, assuming the cross-legged posture for meditation. Zhou Ming placed before him a small wooden bowl filled with clear spring water, in which floated a single leaf.
"Focus your breath as I taught you," Zhou Ming instructed. "Feel the energy within your body. Direct it through the pathways we have mapped. When you can make the leaf move without touching the bowl, your control will be sufficient."
It was a challenging exercise for one so young, but Zhou Ming had discovered early on that Zhi Fan possessed an extraordinary sensitivity to qi. Where most children would struggle to sense spiritual energy at all, Zhi Fan could not only feel it but had begun manipulating it in small ways by his fourth birthday.
As the boy closed his eyes and began the breathing techniques, Zhou Ming stepped outside to prepare for the day's hunting. They would need more meat soon, and winter herbs to dry for medicine. Life in the mountains was harsh, demanding constant vigilance and preparation.
When he returned hours later, a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder, he found Zhi Fan still seated before the bowl. The boy's face was slick with sweat, his small body trembling with effort, but his eyes shone with fierce concentration. And there, on the surface of the water, the leaf was spinning slowly—moved not by any breeze, but by the child's nascent spiritual power.
Zhou Ming said nothing, but inwardly, he felt a surge of pride mingled with apprehension. At this rate, Zhi Fan would soon outgrow what meager cultivation guidance he could provide. The techniques in Zhi Tian's manual would only take the boy so far. Eventually, they would need to risk venturing into the wider world of cultivation to seek proper training.
That night, after Zhi Fan had fallen into exhausted sleep, Zhou Ming sat outside the cabin, staring at the stars. He withdrew from his tunic the jade pendant that Mei Lin had given him—the talisman that had helped shield them during their escape. In the moonlight, its surface seemed to swirl with hidden depths, the ancient symbol carved into it pulsing faintly.
"I am teaching him as best I can," Zhou Ming whispered to the pendant as if Mei Lin might somehow hear him through it. "But I fear it will not be enough to avenge you. To face the Celestial Void Sect, he will need more than I can give."
The pendant offered no answer, but as a night breeze whispered through the pines, Zhou Ming thought he heard a woman's gentle voice carried on the wind: "Patience. His time will come."
Whether imagination or something more mystical, the voice strengthened his resolve. He would continue as he had begun—training the boy in body and spirit, preparing him for the destiny marked upon his chest.
***
In the years that followed, Zhi Fan's training intensified. By his seventh year, he could split stones with his bare hands and run from dawn till dusk without tiring. By his eighth, he had mastered all eighteen forms of the Shadow Tiger style that Zhou Ming had learned during his mercenary days.
But more impressive than his physical development was his progress in cultivation. Working with only the basic manual left by his father and Zhou Ming's limited instruction, Zhi Fan had reached the third stage of Qi Refinement by his ninth birthday—an accomplishment that would have marked him as a prodigy even in the great sects.
The crimson mark on his chest grew more vivid as his cultivation advanced, sometimes pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat during particularly intense meditation sessions. Zhou Ming watched this development with a mixture of awe and concern, wondering what powers might be awakening within the boy.
They lived in near-complete isolation, venturing to the nearest village only when absolutely necessary. On these rare trips, Zhou Ming disguised Zhi Fan and forbade him from displaying any of his abilities. "The world believes you dead," he would remind the boy. "That is our greatest protection for now."
Zhi Fan accepted these precautions without question. Though Zhou Ming had told him little of his origins—only that his parents had died protecting him, and that powerful enemies still sought him—the boy seemed to intuitively understand the gravity of his situation.
One evening, as they sat before the fire after a particularly grueling day of training, Zhi Fan broke their comfortable silence with a question that caught Zhou Ming off guard.
"Sifu," he said, his young voice serious, "why does my chest burn sometimes when I meditate? And why must I hide the mark there?"
Zhou Ming set down the arrow he had been fletching and regarded the boy thoughtfully. Perhaps it was time for more of the truth. Zhi Fan was nearly ten now—the age when talented children were typically sent to join cultivation sects.
"That mark was with you from birth," Zhou Ming explained carefully. "It is called the Mark of Calamity. In the cultivation world, it is believed to signify one who will bring great upheaval—a harbinger of chaos."
Zhi Fan's small hand unconsciously rose to his chest, pressing against the spot where the broken sword birthmark lay hidden beneath his rough-spun tunic. "Is that why they wanted to kill me? Because of a mark?"
"Yes and no," Zhou Ming sighed, the weight of old memories heavy upon him. "The mark was the omen, but there is more to it. Your mother... she came from a bloodline that the Celestial Void Sect had tried to exterminate. When you were born under a blood-red sky, bearing that mark, the Sect Master himself declared you a threat to the world."
"And my parents?" Zhi Fan's dark eyes reflected the dancing flames, his expression unreadable.
"They gave their lives so that I could escape with you. Your father was once a disciple of the very sect that sought your death. Your mother..." Zhou Ming hesitated, still uncertain how much Zhi Tian had known about his mysterious wife. "Your mother had secrets of her own. But both loved you enough to die protecting you."
Zhi Fan was silent for a long moment, processing this information. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened. "Will you teach me to kill them? The ones who murdered my parents?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Zhou Ming studied the boy's face—still round with childhood, yet already showing the sharp determination that would shape the man he would become.
"I will teach you to survive them," Zhou Ming replied carefully. "To grow strong enough that one day, you might seek justice. But revenge is a path walked one careful step at a time, little master. First, you must become someone they cannot easily destroy."
Zhi Fan nodded solemnly, accepting this wisdom. Then, with a directness that startled Zhou Ming, he asked, "When will you tell me the rest of it? About who I really am?"
Zhou Ming's weathered face creased in surprise. "What makes you think there is more?"
The boy's lips curved in a smile that held no childish innocence. "Because you touch that jade pendant when you speak of my mother. Because sometimes, when I'm deep in meditation, I hear voices that aren't yours. And because," he added with simple certainty, "no ordinary child would be hunted by the greatest sect in the realm."
Zhou Ming could not help the rough chuckle that escaped him. "Perceptive as always. Yes, there is more—much more. And I will tell you when the time is right. For now, know this: you were born to shake the very foundations of the cultivation world. Whether that makes you a calamity or a blessing depends on the path you choose."
That night, after Zhi Fan had gone to bed, Zhou Ming stood outside under the vast canopy of stars. Ten years had passed since their desperate flight from the Celestial Void Sect. Ten years of hiding, of training, of preparation.
"Soon," he whispered to the night. "Soon he will be ready to take his first steps into the wider world." His gnarled hand closed around the jade pendant, feeling its subtle warmth. "And may the heavens help those who stand in his way."