"Haaah... haaah... haaah..."
Each ragged breath tore through Zhou Wenkai's lungs like shattered glass as he stumbled through the treacherous mountain passes, his left hand pressed firmly against the crimson stain spreading across his robes. The wound in his stomach pulsed with a rhythm that matched his frantic heartbeat, each throb sending waves of fire through his core. This was no ordinary injury inflicted by a common enemy—this blade had been wielded by Elder Huang, the man who had been more than a master, more than a teacher. The man he had dared to call father.
The irony wasn't lost on him, even through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Zhou Wenkai had never known his actual father, had never experienced the supposed warmth of paternal love that other disciples spoke of with such fondness. His earliest memories were of cold nights spent huddling in doorways, of empty stomachs and the constant gnawing fear that came with true abandonment. Elder Huang had been his salvation from that life—the steady hand that had pulled him from the darkness and given him purpose, identity, belonging.
Now, as Wenkai forced his trembling legs to carry him faster through the rocky terrain, each step a monumental effort of will over flesh, his mind couldn't help but spiral back through the years they had shared. The memories felt like poison now, each recalled moment of kindness transformed into something sinister by the knowledge of what Elder Huang had always been beneath his carefully constructed facade.
The first memory always came back the strongest, perhaps because it had meant everything to a desperate eight-year-old boy who had nothing left to lose. Wenkai could still smell the rich aroma of steamed buns that had drawn his starving body to the sect's kitchens that fateful day. He had been nothing more than a scavenging animal then, crawling through refuse and scraping together whatever scraps he could find to survive another day.
Most of the sect members had treated him exactly as what he appeared to be—a pest to be driven away with harsh words and occasionally harsher blows. The kitchen staff would chase him with ladles and cleaning rags, shouting about filthy street rats contaminating their workspace. The outer disciples would throw stones and laugh when he scrambled away on hands and knees, too weak from hunger to maintain his dignity.
But Elder Huang had been different. When the weathered old man had discovered Wenkai crouched behind a pile of vegetable scraps, frantically stuffing moldy cabbage leaves into his mouth, there had been no disgust in his eyes. No anger, no irritation at finding an unwelcome intruder in his domain. Instead, he had knelt down—this powerful elder, this pillar of the sect's hierarchy, had lowered himself to the level of a starving child.
"What is your name, little one?" he had asked, his voice carrying a gentleness that Wenkai had never heard directed toward him before.
The warm bun that Elder Huang had pressed into his trembling hands had been the most delicious thing Wenkai had ever tasted. Not just because his stomach was so desperately empty, but because it represented something he had never experienced—genuine kindness from another human being. No strings attached, no expectation of payment or service. Just one person seeing another's suffering and choosing to ease it.
"Zhou Wenkai," he had whispered through a mouthful of bread, hardly daring to believe this wasn't some cruel dream his starving mind had conjured.
"Zhou Wenkai," Elder Huang had repeated thoughtfully, as if testing how the name felt on his tongue. "A strong name. Tell me, Zhou Wenkai, would you like to learn the way of cultivation? Would you like to discover what it means to have real power—not the power to take from others, but the power to protect what matters most?"
That question had changed everything. Or so Wenkai had believed for twelve long years.
Now, as blood continued to seep between his fingers and his vision blurred with exhaustion, those words felt like the cruelest joke imaginable. Elder Huang had indeed taught him about power—but the lesson had come in the form of a blade between his ribs, delivered by the very hand that had once offered salvation.
The wound was precise, calculated. Elder Huang had been training warriors for decades; he knew exactly where to strike to cause maximum suffering without granting the mercy of a quick death. The blade had slipped between Wenkai's ribs with surgical precision, angled to avoid any immediately vital organs while ensuring that blood loss and infection would claim him within days. Even in his betrayal, the old man had been methodical, professional.
"Why?" Wenkai had gasped as the steel pierced his flesh, staring into eyes that had once held such warmth but now reflected only the cold calculation of a predator deciding whether its prey was truly dead.
Elder Huang had withdrawn the blade with the same practiced efficiency he brought to everything else, his expression unchanged by the act of attempted murder. "Because you have seen too much, my dear student. Because loyalty, like everything else in this world, has its limits. And mine lie elsewhere now."
The cryptic words still echoed through Wenkai's mind as he pressed deeper into the mountain wilderness, each syllable a fresh reminder of how thoroughly he had been deceived. What had he seen? What knowledge did he possess that warranted such ruthless action from the man who had claimed to love him like a son?
The answer came to him in fragments, pieces of a puzzle he hadn't even realized he was solving until it was far too late. Late-night conversations he had overheard, thinking them innocent discussions of sect business. Strange visitors who had come and gone under cover of darkness, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. Herb-gathering expeditions that had taken them to increasingly remote and dangerous locations, where Elder Huang would disappear for hours at a time while Wenkai waited obediently at their camp.
He had been so naive, so trusting. Every question he had raised had been deflected with paternal concern for his innocence. "Some knowledge is too dangerous for young minds," Elder Huang would say with that gentle smile. "When you are older, wiser, perhaps then you will understand the complexities that burden those of us who must make difficult decisions."
Behind him, the sounds of pursuit grew closer—voices calling through the mountain air, the scrape and clatter of boots against loose stone. Elder Huang would not leave his survival to chance, would not trust that the wound alone would be sufficient. There would be others hunting him now, fellow disciples perhaps, or hired mercenaries who cared nothing for the bonds of brotherhood that had once protected him within the sect's walls.
The realization that his former sect brothers might be among his pursuers was almost more devastating than Elder Huang's betrayal itself. How many of them knew the truth? How many had been complicit in whatever dark schemes their elder had been weaving? Or were they simply following orders, believing the lies that had been carefully crafted to paint Wenkai as the traitor?
His legs trembled with each step, muscles pushed far beyond their limits by desperation and the body's primal drive to survive. Somewhere in these mountains lay sanctuary—or at least the hope of it. He had heard whispers among the younger disciples of hidden caves where rogue cultivators dwelt, men and women who had abandoned the orthodox sects to pursue their own paths. If he could reach them, if he could survive long enough to tend his wounds and plan his next move...
But even as he clung to this slim hope, a darker thought crept into his mind. What if there was no sanctuary? What if the entire world beyond the sect was just as corrupt, just as filled with lies and betrayal? Elder Huang had been one of the most respected figures in the orthodox cultivation world. If someone of his stature could fall so completely, what hope was there for anyone else?
The sun was beginning its descent toward the western peaks, casting long shadows across the jagged landscape. Soon darkness would claim these mountains, and with it would come new dangers. Wild beasts prowled these heights after nightfall—wolves and bears that showed no mercy to wounded travelers. The cold would be another enemy, seeping through his blood-soaked robes to steal what little warmth remained in his body.
As Zhou Wenkai disappeared deeper into the treacherous mountain passes, one thought burned in his mind with crystalline clarity: he would survive this betrayal. Not because he had any grand plan for revenge, not because he believed justice would ultimately prevail, but because dying now would mean that Elder Huang's deception had achieved its ultimate goal. It would mean that the eight-year-old boy who had dared to dream of belonging somewhere had died for nothing.
The boy who had once looked upon his master with filial devotion was indeed dying with each labored breath, each drop of blood that fell onto the rocky ground. But in his place, something harder was being born—something that understood that trust was a luxury he could no longer afford, that innocence was a weakness that nearly cost him everything.
More memories flooded his consciousness as he ran, each one now tainted by the knowledge of what Elder Huang had truly been. The day of his first sword lesson played out with particular cruelty, every word of wisdom transformed into something sinister.
"You're thinking of the sword as merely a tool for violence," Elder Huang had said, watching as young Wenkai struggled with the unfamiliar weight of the practice blade. "But that understanding will only lead you to defeat and death. Here, let me show you."
The elder had taken the sword from Wenkai's inexperienced hands with the reverence one might show a sacred relic. His weathered fingers had wrapped around the hilt with the easy familiarity of someone who had wielded such weapons for longer than his student had been alive. In one fluid motion, he had raised the blade and swept it through the air in a perfect arc.
The resulting gust of wind had been tremendous, powerful enough to rustle every leaf within twenty paces and send clouds of dust swirling in complex patterns. Young Wenkai had stumbled backward, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. How could such devastating force emerge from what appeared to be such a simple movement?
"The sword is not merely a weapon," Elder Huang had continued, his voice carrying the weight of ancient wisdom. "It is an extension of your very soul, a physical manifestation of your will made manifest in the world. When you hold it properly, you must feel its spirit merge with yours. Every cut, every thrust, every defensive motion must flow from the deepest wellspring of your being."
He had placed the sword back in Wenkai's trembling hands, covering the young man's fingers with his own weathered palms. The touch had been warm, reassuring, paternal. "Remember this always, my student—if the sword breaks, a part of you breaks with it. But if you truly understand this bond, if you can achieve perfect harmony between flesh and steel, then you and the blade will become unbreakable together."
Now, fleeing through the mountains with his life bleeding away through his fingers, Wenkai could still feel the phantom weight of that first sword in his hands. He could still hear Elder Huang's patient voice echoing through the years, still remember the pride that had swelled in his chest when his master nodded approvingly at his progress.
If only the old master could see him now—running like a frightened animal instead of standing firm and fighting with the principles he had been taught. The irony was suffocating. All those lessons about honor and courage, about facing adversity with dignity and strength, and here he was fleeing through the wilderness like a common criminal.
I'm pathetic, he thought bitterly, stumbling over a loose stone that sent fresh waves of agony through his wounded torso. Everything he taught me, and this is what I've become.