Jin Long

  Hours had passed before he finally encountered anyone else on the road. The scent of crushed grass and churned earth reached Jin Long before he laid eyes upon them. Then, sharper still, came the tang of fear, the bitter stench of unwashed bodies, and the unmistakably sour taste of killing intent.

  The sun had nearly descended completely, melting into the horizon like liquid gold poured over the ridges of distant mountains. Shadows stretched long, creeping like silent phantoms over the uneven dirt road.

  A caravan lay upon the road, its heavy wooden frame leaning awkwardly and rendered useless by a shattered wheel. Whatever had caused the incident had also caused the caravan to scatter its cargo—silk, trinkets, metals, grain, salted meats, and spices. The two-headed ox at the front of the caravan tossed its thick neck, bellowing its distress, nostrils flaring as it strained at its bindings.

  Three ragged men loomed over the wreckage.

  They stood like wretched wolves circling a wounded deer, their clothes tattered, their faces worn with hunger and cruelty. They carried weapons, but nothing of refinement—a rusted sword, a chipped dagger, and a club stripped from a broken cart. They did not appear to be warriors—just desperate men with nothing to lose.

  Bandits, Jin Long surmised. The trappings of desperation, of hunger, of those who had lost everything except the will to take from others.

  An old merchant knelt before them, one hand pressed against his ribs where a bandit had struck him. Behind him, a woman, shielding a boy no older than ten, her body curled protectively around him, though fear shone plainly in her tear-streaked eyes.

  "Please," the merchant wheezed, his voice hoarse, filled with the weary resignation of a man who knew his doom was at hand. "We have nothing more to give you."

  A bandit grunted, tightening his grip on his rusted sword. "That so?" He raised the blade, its corroded edge catching the light in one last cruel shimmer.

  The sword never came down.

  Jin Long had moved.

  No blur of speed, no wasted motion—just a shift, a silent ripple in the air.

  Before the bandit’s blade could finish its descent, it jerked violently from his grasp, as if the unseen hands of the divine had reached forth to snatch it away. The weapon spun in the air, wrenched free by an invisible force, before clattering against the dirt, lifeless and defeated.

  Jin Long struck.

  A single, carefully controlled palm strike landed squarely against the bandit’s back. The force rippled through the man’s spine, an impact not of mere strength, but of cultivated power, of mastery over the unseen energies that wove through the world. The bandit lifted from the ground, weightless for a breath, before hurtling like a thrown ragdoll, skidding across the dirt until he collided against a broken stump. He choked on his blood, his face twisted in agony as his final breath slipped past his lips like mist upon a winter morning.

  Jin Long reacted in surprise and frustration, having thought he had adequately held back his full strength to avoid causing a fatality. Clearly, he was much more powerful than he realized, or the bandit was much more fragile than he seemed.

  The remaining bandits assessed the situation, realizing their advantage in the fight had suddenly flipped on its head.

  Jin Long brushed a stray strand of hair from his face. His moonsilk robes, unblemished, fluttered in the dusk breeze, untouched by the brutality of the moment.

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  "I’d have to ask you to stop harassing this gentleman and his family," his voice was even, a mere suggestion rather than a demand, but laced with authority. Jin Long was trying his best to imitate the posture and disposition of an exalted cultivator. "Unless, of course, you wish for me to intervene further. And I’d rather not kill either of you—by accident."

  For a moment, the only sound came from the distressed ox, its hooves kicking against the earth in restless panic.

  To Jin Long’s surprise, the bandits did not flee.

  The taller of the two met his gaze with a hollow stare, the look of a man who had already accepted his death. His lips twisted into a grimace, somewhere between a sneer and a plea.

  "Better I die in your hands than theirs," he muttered. The other bandit nodded in quiet agreement.

  They lunged in coordination.

  The first swung high, a broad, reckless arc aimed to crack Jin Long’s skull. A mistake. It was sloppy, desperate, an attack borne of fear, not skill. Jin Long stepped forward instead of back, slipping into the bandit’s guard with the ease of a falling leaf.

  He caught the bandit’s wrist mid-swing. A sharp twist, a precise application of pressure, and a sickening pop followed. The bandit screamed, his club falling uselessly from his limp fingers. His knees buckled as pain overtook him, his body collapsing into the dirt.

  The second bandit aimed lower with his dagger—a stab to the gut, direct and savage. Jin Long shifted at the last moment, the blade slicing through empty air where he had just been.

  Jin Long dropped low, sweeping his leg in a single, fluid movement and catching the bandit’s ankle. The bandit toppled violently, limbs flailing, body twisting midair before colliding with the earth. His head struck the earth with a dull crack, and his weapon rolled from his slack grip.

  The battle was over in less than five breaths.

  Or so Jin Long thought.

  He heard a ragged breath, a muttered curse, and felt it—a flicker of unstable qi, the sharp crackle of paper igniting in the wind.

  Jin Long turned just in time to see the downed bandit pull a folded talisman from his sleeve. It glowed an angry, pulsating red, the script of destruction scrawled across its surface trembling with barely contained energy.

  An exploding talisman.

  The bandit’s hand trembled, his breath labored, his eyes filled with both hatred and reckless determination. "Fuck this unfairness," he rasped, "If I die, I'm taking all of you with me!"

  Jin Long instinctually reacted again. The very air shimmered, rippling outward like the surface of a still lake disturbed by a single drop of rain. A barrier—translucent yet unyielding, forged of sheer will and boundless qi—erupted into existence, encasing the merchant’s family, the caravan, and himself in a protective dome.

  A deafening roar split the evening air. Flames and shattered earth burst outward, a violent storm of force and heat ripping through the dirt. The shockwave sent dust and debris howling into the sky, turning the world into a chaos of incendiary red.

  But the barrier held.

  The explosion struck it like a tidal wave against an unyielding cliff. Flames scattered harmlessly across its surface, the heat curling against the barrier before dispersing into nothing. Within the barrier, there was only silence, the aftershock of destruction muffled by Jin Long’s will.

  Then, as quickly as it had formed, the barrier dissipated, the shimmering wall of qi fading back into the wind.

  The bandit—what was left of him—lay sprawled in the smoldering crater of his own making. The scent of burnt earth and charred flesh clung to the air, heavy and suffocating. The bandit’s remaining companion was not so lucky either.

  Why? Jin Long wondered. He had clearly meant to spare the two men, or else with his strength he could’ve easily snuffed them.

  Jin Long was also puzzled by something else. It was clear that the bandit who unleashed the explosion had once walked the path of cultivation—his ability to wield the talisman proved as much.

  At one point in his life, the bandit had chased the heavens, sought enlightenment, grasped for power beyond mortal reach. And yet, he had fallen and taken the road to perdition. What had broken him? Was it fate’s cruelty, or his own failings? What weight had bent his back, what hunger had hollowed his soul, until all that remained was a desperate man willing to burn himself to ash for mere banditry?

  Jin Long continued to ponder, doing his best to avoid the one question he feared to ask himself.

  What would be his cultivation story?