Mist hung low in the valley like a breath held too long.
Shi Yan stood at the edge of the dirt path, robes tattered, his bald head bowed not in prayer, but fatigue. The distant cries of frightened villagers echoed from below, carried on the cold mountain wind like ghosts. His bare feet were caked in dust, yet he moved with the quiet certainty of someone who had long ceased to fear the road—or where it led.
A merchant's ox-cart rumbled past him, the driver flinching at the sight of him.
Another whisper: "That's the monk… the one they say…"
Shi Yan heard it all. He always did.
But he said nothing.
When he entered the village of Stone Lantern, the signs of trouble were immediate: broken gates, ash pits where offerings had been stolen, and silence that stank of fear.
Children peered from behind shut doors. Old men kept their heads bowed. No one greeted him. No one offered tea. The last time he had walked through a village like this, he'd left it bloodier than he found it. That memory wasn't real—but it still held him like chains.
Then he saw them—five men, dirty and armored in patchwork gear, dragging a farmer by the collar.
"Too old to be worth a ransom," one grunted. "Just take his wife."
The farmer's pleas were hoarse. Hopeless.
Shi Yan stepped forward.
"You should leave," he said calmly.
The bandits turned, scoffing when they saw only one man—barefoot, thin, and wearing worn monk's robes.
"You should run, beggar," the leader laughed, brandishing a club. "Or do you think those hands can stop us?"
Shi Yan didn't answer. He closed his eyes.
And then moved.
A blur of motion—his body twisting like a reed in wind. One fist struck the leader's sternum with such precision that he dropped mid-charge, coughing blood and crumpling to his knees.
Another attacker lunged with a rusty spear—Shi Yan sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and twisted it skyward with a breath-powered torque. The bandit's own momentum flipped him over, landing in the mud with a dull crunch.
By the time the last two realized what had happened, it was already over.
Three down. Two fleeing.
Shi Yan didn't chase. He never chased.
One of the wounded bandits, groaning and gasping, crawled toward his fallen club. His hand trembled as he reached for it.
Shi Yan knelt beside him.
"I won't kill you," he said. "But you should leave this life behind."
The bandit coughed, eyes wild with pain and fear. Blood spattered from his lips.
And then—his gaze sharpened, as if some memory had surged through the haze of pain.
"They said you'd come…" he rasped. "The Black Lotus… moves in the emperor's shadow…"
His breath rattled once. Twice.
Then silence.
Shi Yan stood over the body, fists clenched—not in anger, but confusion. That name… Black Lotus. The words struck like a gong in his mind, echoing into the parts of his memory he could never quite reach.
No blade. No flame. Just my fists… but they still died.
He looked down at his hands—scarred, strong, and calloused from years of training.
Were these the hands of a murderer?
Or of a man used?
The villagers peeked out slowly as the sun broke through the fog. One elderly woman dared to approach with a bowl of rice, arms shaking.
"Thank you… monk."
He nodded but didn't take the offering.
Redemption couldn't be bought with charity—or earned by saving strangers.
Not until he knew the truth.