The summons came before dawn.
Not with fanfare or palace guards. Just a silent, cloaked messenger who placed a coin in Shen's hand — stamped with the Li family crest: twin war halberds beneath a rising sun.
Shen traced it with his thumb.
"The Iron General wants to meet. Alone."
He followed without hesitation.
The path led to the Western Barracks Courtyard — a cold, open space used by the military elite, forbidden to servants.
But Shen wasn't stopped.
Not once.
As if someone had whispered, "Let him through."
General Li stood under the sparring tree, sharpening a blade with a whetstone.
He didn't look up.
"You caught the dart."
Shen nodded.
"You broke the assassin's jaw before he could kill himself."
Another nod.
"You moved faster than my men, and disappeared like smoke."
A pause.
Then, the general finally looked at him.
"You're not palace-born," he said flatly. "Your stance is military. Your calm isn't learned — it's earned."
Shen said nothing.
"You remind me of someone," the general muttered.
He sheathed the blade. Walked over.
Then, surprising everyone — even himself — he tossed Shen a wooden practice sword.
"Prove you're not luck."
They sparred.
Not in front of others.
Not for display.
Just two men under a cold tree — one forged by war, the other by exile.
Steel struck wood. Wood struck air. Shen moved like flowing ink. The general struck like thunder on stone.
They clashed twenty times.
Shen never struck back — but never lost his footing.
When they stopped, both breathing steady, the general stared at him with quiet intensity.
"…What's your name?"
"Shen."
"Just Shen?"
"…For now."
A long silence.
Then the general said something he hadn't said to anyone in years:
"I want you at my side."
Shen raised an eyebrow.
"Not as a soldier. Not as a servant. I want you as my disciple."
The offer hung in the air.
Heavy. Real.
A path of power — a name, a rank, protection.
But Shen didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he asked, "Why me?"
The general's reply was quiet.
"Because in all my years of war, only two people ever moved like you do. One was my brother…"
He looked Shen in the eyes.
"…and the other was the brother he lost."
Shen didn't flinch.
But his chest tightened.
He bowed — deep and formal.
"I accept. Master."
The general's hand tightened slightly behind his back.
"…Good."
Then he tossed Shen something wrapped in black cloth.
A medallion.
Old. Bronze. With a name scratched off its back.
"Keep it close," the general said. "It once belonged to someone important."
Later that night, Shen sat alone beneath the sparring tree, the medallion in hand.
He turned it over.
In the right light, beneath the scratched-off letters, he could still faintly read the name:
"Yun."His birth name.The name no one should know.