Chapter 4: First Blood
The mountain pass that led to their secluded valley had always been treacherous—a natural defense that had served them well for a decade. Few travelers ventured this far into the wilderness and those who did rarely noticed the small cabin nestled against the cliff face, concealed by ancient pines and clever use of the terrain.
But isolation, like all protections, was not absolute.
Zhi Fan crouched by the stream, focusing intently on the clear water rushing over smooth stones. At twelve years old, he had grown tall for his age, his body lean and wiry from years of relentless training. His long black hair was tied back with a simple leather cord, revealing sharp features that hinted at the handsome man he would become.
Following Zhou Ming's instructions, he had been practicing water manipulation techniques for the past three hours. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he extended his hand over the rushing stream, his Qi Refinement cultivation—now at the eighth stage—allowing him to exert subtle control over the water's flow.
Slowly, a thin column of water rose against gravity, twisting like a serpent in the air before him. Zhi Fan's dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he molded the liquid, trying to maintain its cohesion against the natural tendency to splash back into the stream.
"Not enough spiritual pressure," he muttered to himself, adjusting his breathing. The water column stabilized, now rotating slowly above his palm.
A sudden sensation—like a cold finger tracing down his spine—broke his concentration. The water collapsed, drenching his outstretched hand. Zhi Fan frowned, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. His senses, honed by years of Zhou Ming's training, had detected something.
Someone was approaching their valley.
Not Zhou Ming, who had left three days ago to trade pelts in the distant village. These were strangers—multiple presences moving with purpose toward their hidden home.
Cultivators? The thought sent a spike of alarm through him. Had the Celestial Void Sect finally found them after all these years?
But no—as he extended his spiritual sense further, he detected no cultivation auras, only the mundane energies of ordinary humans. Bandits, then, or perhaps hunters who had strayed too far into the mountains.
Either way, they were too close to the cabin. Too close to the few treasures and secrets that Zhou Ming kept hidden there.
Zhi Fan hesitated only briefly. Zhou Ming had drilled into him strict rules about avoiding contact with outsiders, concealing his abilities, about remaining hidden at all costs. But his guardian was not here, and these intruders threatened their sanctuary.
Decision made, he sprinted through the forest with preternatural speed, moving as Zhou Ming had taught him—like a shadow between shadows, his footfalls silent on the pine-needle carpet. Within minutes, he had positioned himself on a rocky outcrop overlooking the narrow trail that led to their valley.
Below, he counted six men moving in loose formation. Bandits, without question—rough-looking, armed with crude weapons, their expressions hardened by lives of violence. They moved with the wary confidence of predators who had found what they believed to be easy prey.
"Old man's got to have something valuable," one was saying, a burly man with a puckered scar across his cheek. "Nobody lives this far out unless they're hiding."
"Gold, maybe," another suggested, fingering the hilt of a notched saber. "Or spirit herbs. My cousin says the mountains here grow rare ones that fetch good prices from the sects."
"Just don't damage anything until we've searched properly," the leader cautioned—a tall, whipcord-thin man with calculating eyes. "And remember, the old mountain man is mine. I owe him for what he did to my brother in Yiling."
Zhi Fan's eyes narrowed at this. So they knew of Zhou Ming or thought they did. This was no random raid—they had come seeking specific vengeance.
He should retreat, he knew. Hide deeper in the mountains until Zhou Ming returned. That would be the cautious path, the safe path.
But something in him rebelled at the thought of these men pawing through their home, destroying the life they had built. And if they were still here when Zhou Ming returned, tired from his journey...
The Mark of Calamity on his chest seemed to pulse with warmth as if awakening to his rising anger.
Before he could reconsider, Zhi Fan picked up a stone and hurled it with perfect accuracy, striking a tree far to the right of the path. The sharp crack echoed through the valley.
"What was that?" The men tensed, weapons half-drawn.
"Probably just a deer," the leader said, though his hand remained on his sword hilt. "Teng, Lang, check it out."
Two of the bandits broke away, moving cautiously toward the source of the sound. Zhi Fan retreated silently, circling through the underbrush until he was behind them. This was a hunting technique Zhou Ming had taught him—separate your prey, isolate them, then strike.
The two bandits pushed through a thicket, grumbling about being sent to chase noises. When they found nothing, they turned to rejoin their companions.
They never saw the shadow that dropped from the branches above.
Zhi Fan struck with precision, using the pressure point techniques Zhou Ming had drilled into him countless times. A sharp jab to the neck sent the first man crumpling to the ground, unconscious before he could make a sound. The second managed to half-turn, eyes widening at the sight of a mere boy attacking them.
"What the—" was all he managed before Zhi Fan's palm struck his solar plexus and drove the air from his lungs. A follow-up strike to the temple rendered him unconscious alongside his companion.
Four left. Zhi Fan tied and gagged the unconscious men swiftly, using strips torn from their own clothing. Then he melted back into the forest, heart pounding not with fear but with a strange exhilaration. This was his first real combat against humans who meant him harm, and so far, he had prevailed.
"Teng? Lang?" The leader's voice carried through the trees, impatience giving way to suspicion. "Report back, you useless curs!"
Silence answered him. The remaining bandits drew closer together, weapons now fully unsheathed, eyes scanning the surrounding forest with growing unease.
"Something's wrong," the scarred man muttered. "This doesn't feel right."
"Spread out," the leader ordered. "Find them. And if you see anyone—anyone at all—kill them."
A fatal mistake. Zhi Fan watched from the high branches of an ancient pine as the men separated, making themselves easier targets. He chose the straggler—a nervous-looking man clutching a rusted spear. Dropping silently behind him, Zhi Fan employed the same tactics, rendering the man unconscious with two swift strikes.
Three remaining.
But his luck couldn't hold. As he was securing the third bandit, a twig snapped beneath his foot. The sound, small as it was, carried to the scarred man nearby, who whirled with surprising speed.
"There!" he bellowed, charging toward Zhi Fan with a wicked curved blade raised high.
There was no time for stealth now. Zhi Fan rose to meet the charge, sidestepping at the last moment and using the man's momentum against him. But the bandit was no novice to combat—he recovered quickly, spinning to face Zhi Fan with a snarl.
"A fucking child?" he spat in disbelief. "You're the one picking us off?"
He lunged again, blade slashing in vicious arcs. Zhi Fan ducked and weaved, his smaller size and superior agility keeping him just beyond the blade's reach. The training with Zhou Ming had prepared him for this—countless hours spent dodging strikes, learning to read an opponent's body language, and anticipating attacks before they came.
But the commotion had drawn the others. From the corner of his eye, Zhi Fan saw the remaining two bandits rushing toward them, weapons ready.
Time to use what Zhou Ming had forbidden except in direst need.
Zhi Fan drew upon his cultivation, channeling spiritual energy into his limbs. The world seemed to slow around him as his perceptions sharpened. When the scarred man lunged again, Zhi Fan moved with supernatural speed, slipping inside his guard. His palm strike to the man's chest carried enough force to crack ribs and send the bandit flying backward into a tree trunk.
The man slumped to the ground, blood trickling from his mouth, eyes wide with shock.
"He's a cultivator!" the leader shouted, his voice tinged with fear and rage. "Take him together!"
The remaining two attacked in unison, their coordination suggesting they had fought together before. Under normal circumstances, a twelve-year-old boy facing two grown men would have no chance.
But Zhi Fan was far from normal.
He moved like flowing water, his body seeming to bend impossibly as he evaded their attacks. One strike he caught on his forearm, reinforced with spiritual energy, the blade failing to penetrate his skin. His counterattack was a spinning kick that connected with the man's temple, dropping him instantly.
Only the leader remained now—the tall, thin man who had spoken of vengeance against Zhou Ming. He circled Zhi Fan warily, reassessing his opponent with calculating eyes.
"What are you?" he demanded. "No child moves like that."
Zhi Fan said nothing, maintaining his fighting stance. Zhou Ming had taught him that words were wasted in battle—another distraction, another potential mistake.
The leader's next attack was more cautious, probing for weaknesses. Their blades—the bandit's sword against a simple wooden training staff Zhi Fan had snatched from the ground—clashed repeatedly as they tested each other.
Had Zhi Fan been fully rested, the outcome would never have been in doubt. But hours of water manipulation practice before the encounter had drained his spiritual reserves. As the fight dragged on, his movements slowed fractionally, his reactions dulled by exhaustion.
The leader, experienced in combat, sensed the change. He pressed his advantage with renewed vigor, forcing Zhi Fan onto the defensive. A particularly vicious slash shattered the wooden staff, leaving Zhi Fan momentarily unarmed.
In that instant of vulnerability, the bandit leader lunged, his blade aimed directly at Zhi Fan's heart.
Time seemed to crystallize. Zhi Fan saw the sword approaching as if through water—slow, inevitable. Death, reaching for him with a steel finger.
Something inside him tore free.
The Mark of Calamity on his chest erupted with crimson light so intense it shone through his clothing. Power unlike anything he had ever felt surged through his meridians, raw and untamed. His hand moved of its own accord, fingers rigid like a spear point, striking not at the blade but at the man wielding it.
His hand pierced the bandit leader's chest as if the flesh were paper.
Blood sprayed across Zhi Fan's face, hot and metallic. The leader's eyes bulged with shock and pain, his mouth working soundlessly. The sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering harmlessly to the ground.
"What... are... you?" the man gasped, blood bubbling from his lips.
Zhi Fan stared at his hand, protruding from the man's chest, with equal shock. This was not what he had intended. This was not what Zhou Ming had taught him.
The power that had flowed through him receded as quickly as it had come, leaving him trembling with its absence. Slowly, he withdrew his bloodied hand, and the bandit leader collapsed at his feet, dead before he hit the ground.
Zhi Fan stood among the fallen bandits—one dead by his hand, the others unconscious—and felt something fundamental shift within him. He had taken a life. Not in practice or theory, but in terrible, bloody reality.
The Mark of Calamity on his chest still tingled with fading warmth, as if satisfied by the violence it had witnessed. Or perhaps, Zhi Fan thought with dawning horror, the violence it had caused.
When Zhou Ming returned the next day to find five bound bandits and one fresh grave, Zhi Fan told him everything—about the attack, the fight, and the strange power that had erupted from his birthmark.
The old warrior listened in silence, his weathered face giving nothing away. When Zhi Fan finished his tale, Zhou Ming placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"The power has awakened," he said solemnly. "Earlier than I had hoped. Now, more than ever, you must master yourself before it masters you."
"What is it?" Zhi Fan asked, his voice small. "This... thing inside me?"
Zhou Ming's eyes were dark with ancient knowledge and newer fears. "It is your inheritance," he said simply. "And it is time I told you the full truth about who you are."