The mountain air was thin.
Jin pulled his tattered robe tighter around his shoulders, his feet moving in silence over uneven stones. The trail had long given way to fractured rock and moss-covered ridges. Each breath drew a quiet chill through his nose, the kind that felt alive, crisp, and biting.
He had been walking for what felt like days.
No sun to guide him—only a pale sky veiled in constant gray, as though even time was uncertain of itself.
Eventually, through the drifting mist, a collection of low wooden buildings emerged like ghosts clinging to the cliffside.
A village, nestled on terraces carved into the spine of a mountain.
Smoke curled from chimney holes. Faint laughter and rhythmic shouting echoed from the distance—training drills. A single bell chimed now and then, its sound like the yawn of a bronze throat.
Jin narrowed his eyes.
"It's… familiar. But wrong."
The people he saw wore hanfu-like robes, yet the patterns were unusual—sleeves cut longer, belts woven differently, even the way they tied their hair seemed off. The buildings had curved rooftops, yes, but they lacked the symmetry he remembered. Everything felt… subtly displaced.
He walked cautiously into the village center. As he passed, heads turned.
Not because he was a stranger, but because something about him was unsettling.
Their gazes lingered—not on his face, but on his posture.
On the way his steps landed with perfect balance. On how his hands rested just above his waist, fingers half-curled, ready without knowing why. He didn't notice it himself.
They did.
A group of children playing with bamboo sticks paused to stare. An old woman murmured under her breath and made a warding gesture.
A short, wiry man approached him near the square. His accent was thick, his words strange, bent, as though spoken through another time.
"Wǒ...ren...foreign foot. From where come walk, ah?"
Jin blinked.
The man's words barely made sense—but his mouth formed syllables Jin should understand. Yet they twisted strangely, like watching your own reflection ripple in a pond.
"…I… came from the valley," Jin said slowly, frowning. "I'm looking for a place to rest."
The man hesitated, then nodded, lips twitching.
"Master… will see. You… come."
He beckoned and turned.
The Courtyard of Shifting Stones
They walked past the training yard. Young martial artists—teenagers and older—moved in synchronized drills, fists striking the air in flowing rhythm. A handful of instructors barked corrections from the sides, adjusting stances, yelling breath counts.
Jin paused.
The forms… they were inefficient. No—not wrong, just… missing something.
Their weight distribution was off. Their hips stiff. Their strikes lacked proper grounding.
His body twitched. His foot shifted slightly on instinct.
He didn't realize he'd adjusted his own balance in response, as if his body were mocking them silently.
One of the instructors noticed.
They entered a wooden hall with hanging banners faded from years of incense and rain. At the far end, seated cross-legged before an old brazier, sat a man with snow-white eyebrows and a goatee long enough to brush his lap.
His robe was plain. His eyes, sharp.
He looked up the moment Jin entered.
"You walk like a man who's forgotten his steps," he said quietly. "But your bones remember something far older."
Jin paused at the doorway.
"…You speak more clearly than the others."
The old master smiled.
"I speak older. The dialect here's… evolved. You've not walked this world in a long time, have you?"
Jin stiffened. "What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, the master rose.
"I am Master Hui of the Stone Flow Clan, humble keepers of the Tide Root Style—a small art, known in this region."
He stepped forward.
"Tell me. You were watching the students. Did you notice their flaws?"
Jin hesitated. "I… don't know martial arts."
"That may be. But your eyes see them."
The old man reached behind the brazier and tossed something toward him.
A bamboo training sword.
Jin caught it without thought—his grip naturally perfect.
The moment stunned him.
"Why do I know how to hold this?"
A student entered the hall, curious. A thin, wiry youth with a cocky grin and a white sash around his waist.
"Master Hui, is this the outsider? Let me test him! If he's so strong, let him prove it."
The master did not object.
Jin blinked.
"Wait. I said I don't know—"
But the student was already rushing forward.
Fast. Eager.
Jin stepped back—
No, his body flowed back. Without thinking, his stance opened. Right foot behind. Elbow lowered. The bamboo sword lifted in a guard that no one had taught him.
The student struck downward.
Jin parried with a spiral wrist turn—disarming, redirecting, and striking the student's side in one fluid motion.
CRACK.
The student collapsed, wheezing.
Silence.
Even Jin stood frozen, blinking at the weapon in his hand.
"I didn't know how to do that."
The bamboo dropped from his fingers.
Master Hui stepped forward, eyes narrow.
"You say you know nothing," he said. "Yet your breath moves with the ground. Your strike follows the law of spine and silence."
He reached behind him and pulled out a scroll wrapped in cloth.
"This is a beginner's form of the Tide Root Style. Study it tonight. Come to the courtyard at dawn."
Jin hesitated. "Why?"
The old master smiled.
"Because whatever you are, boy… you've returned to a world that left you behind. Time has forgotten you, but Zin has not."
Jin took the scroll.
Outside, thunder cracked softly in the distance.
Jin then thought to himself
" It's a strange feeling, don't really understand what these people speak but bits, the land is..... familiar but something is off, I can't fully trust them yet but I do need a place to stay"
He looked at the old master as he wanted to show him to his temporary stay
" This man..... knows something, I don't trust him just yet but he seems kind. For now I'll wait and see how things go from here."