The scroll crackled faintly in his hands.
Jin sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of his assigned quarters, back against a drafty wall. The room was simple—one window, a straw mat, a chipped lantern. Dust layered the corners. The scent of dried tea and faint ink clung to the air.
"'You'll get used to it,' she said," he muttered to himself.
"I'm not sure if that was a warning or a threat."
Earlier, an elderly maid had shown him around—sort of. Her words had come in hurried fragments, the dialect rough and twisted, her hand gestures doing more talking than her tongue. Jin had nodded when he should've, bowed when she seemed annoyed, and followed her to a large wooden bathhouse out back that smelled like pine ash and flower roots.
"...At least the water was hot," he muttered.
He scratched his damp hair and looked down at himself. The new robes they gave him were stiff but clean—gray cotton with a dark sash. He tugged awkwardly at the waist.
"Better than waking up half-burnt in a ruin."
The scroll before him was unrolled neatly, each brushstroke crisp despite the age of the parchment. It was the First Form of the Tide Root Style—a martial form said to mirror the rhythm of water striking stone: patient, yielding, then sudden and sharp.
He read it once, then twice.
"Front foot planted, back foot at half turn... arm flows like current... strike like downward stream..."
He stood.
His left foot slid forward.
His arms rose, mirroring the scroll's pose.
But then… something strange happened.
His body refused.
His right shoulder shifted slightly. His back foot rotated two degrees more. His hand lowered not to match the scroll—but to correct it. The tension across his spine realigned itself. His breath matched the posture, and when he pushed off the ground into the next motion—
CRACK.
The floor splintered beneath his forward step.
He stared down at the fractured board.
"...The What?"
He looked at his hand, then his foot, then slowly over his shoulder—as if someone might be watching.
But there was no one.
He stepped back and tried again.
Once more, his conscious form broke. His body moved on its own—graceful, fluid, precise. Not mimicking the scroll. Refining it. Movements became instinct. The form adjusted mid-strike, transforming something designed into something alive.
"This… can't be normal."
Another movement. Another strike.
The air shivered as his palm sliced through it, carving pressure like wind off a blade.
"That felt… real. Like it could break something."
His eyebrows scrunched.
"…I can't even remember my last name."
Outside, the Next Morning
Rumors moved faster than horses.
By the time Jin stepped into the training courtyard at dawn, wrapped in his gray robe and yawning slightly, the other disciples had already spread the tale:
"The outsider shattered a board just by stepping wrong."
"Master Hui gave him the scroll, and he learned it in one night."
"He's faking the amnesia. Probably a hidden grandmaster."
They avoided him, some subtly, some not. Eyes narrowed, whispers carried in hushed tones.
But Jin barely noticed.
He stood in the center of the courtyard, arms folded, watching the others repeat the same Form he had learned. Their motions were shaky. Their balance wrong.
He mimicked them for a moment—then again, his body shifted naturally into a more efficient stance.
The head instructor noticed.
She approached, frowning.
"Why did you move your foot?"
Jin blinked. "It… felt off."
"It is as the scroll says. That's the Form."
He opened his mouth, closed it, then scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
"…My bad."
He shuffled into the incorrect posture, awkwardly exaggerating his shoulder angle like the others.
Inside, he winced.
"Feels like standing with my knee in a tree trunk…"
That Afternoon
In the dining hall, Jin chewed slowly on a rice cake that tasted like stale paper dipped in hot water. He gave it a look of dramatic betrayal.
"You call this food?" he muttered, glancing at the maid who passed by.
She grunted something in her dialect and pointed to the bowl. Jin raised an eyebrow, unsure if she was threatening him or suggesting seconds.
"...I'm good."
He leaned back on his bench, watching other disciples train in the yard beyond the open doors. One boy was struggling with a forward strike, tripping over his own footwork.
Jin tilted his head. His arm twitched.
"His weight's too far forward… elbow's exposed."
The boy fell.
Jin winced on reflex.
The student looked up—then spotted Jin watching and quickly turned away.
"They're afraid of me already. For something I don't even understand."
Jin sighed and leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm.
"…I'm not a martial artist," he said to himself. "But my body is."
That Night
Back in his room, Jin sat cross-legged once more, arms resting on his knees.
"If I'm so strong… why do I feel like I don't belong here at all?"
He looked down at his hands.
"What happened to me?"
His memory gave him nothing but smoke.
Only the whisper remained.
"Become the Martial King."
He exhaled slowly.
And in the quiet stillness of night, somewhere between form and formlessness, he began moving again.
This time—not from the scroll.
But from something deeper.
Jin wandered through the village with slow, uncertain steps. The cool mountain breeze teased the sleeves of his unfamiliar robes, and the distant caws of birds echoed off the stone ridges surrounding the settlement. The village itself was small—quaint homes built from wood and earth, patched together with care rather than wealth. People bustled around with quiet purpose. Laughter spilled from a small courtyard where children played with hoops and sticks, while farmers carried bundles of herbs and vegetables from the nearby terraces.
He had hoped walking around would jog his memory—anything at all. But all he found was unfamiliarity.
Someone—a wiry old man with a weathered face—waved at him from across the path and began to speak.
"Zae'n drehl kasfi yuu—hurm… fessh gii?" the man muttered, face crinkling into a smile.
Jin blinked.
"Uh…"
The words sounded like scrambled eggs being stirred with gravel. He could tell the man was being friendly, maybe curious about the strange boy with the messy hair and confused expression, but the language felt broken, warped in his ears like it was intentionally keeping him out. He nodded politely, smiled, and walked faster.
"Huuurmm? Fessh?!" the man called again, a bit louder this time.
Jin slipped around the corner of a straw-roofed building and exhaled.
"What even was that..."
But something caught his nose—a scent.
He stopped. His stomach growled loud enough to startle a passing chicken.
The smell was warm and rich, something between roasted meat and a thick, savory broth. Jin followed the trail like a moth to flame, finally landing in front of a simple food stall. Steam rose from the cart, carrying with it aromas he couldn't name. He stared at the bowl in the vendor's hand—a soup of some kind with wide, slippery noodles, chunks of meat, and green vegetables floating on the surface.
Jin's mouth watered.
He patted down his robes and pockets. Nothing. Then, from within a hidden fold, he found a single jade coin—round, old, and cool to the touch. A bit worn. It felt familiar. Like it belonged to a time he couldn't reach anymore.
He stepped forward and placed it gently on the counter.
The food vendor—an old woman with sleeves rolled to her elbows—raised a brow. She looked down at the jade coin, then at Jin, then back at the coin again.
She sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, then launched into a string of sharp, quick words.
"Tseii dazh! Duun fen gol… shen ma?!" she scolded, waving the coin in his face like he had just tried to pay her with a button.
Jin tilted his head in confusion.
The woman groaned and reached under her counter, pulling out a set of worn bronze coins with square holes in the center.
She slapped them on the counter, then pointed at Jin's jade coin, back at her coins, then made a big X with her arms.
Jin's face turned deadpan. His eyes narrowed. He looked at her coins again, back at the priceless ancient jade he was holding, and made a face that screamed, "You've got to be kidding me."
Wasn't jade supposed to be universal currency? What era was this? Was jade out of style? When did that happen?
The vendor sighed again. Then, with a motherly huff, she pushed a bowl of food toward him and waved him off.
Jin took it with both hands, bowed in a confused but grateful half-nod, and walked off chewing happily.
For a moment, he forgot his confusion. The warmth of the broth, the spice on his tongue—it all stirred something faint in him. Not memory. Just a feeling. Familiarity without a name.
After finishing, he continued his walk and leaned lazily on a tree nearby to think.
Crack.
The tree split halfway down its trunk and keeled over like a broken toy.
Jin stood frozen.
"…"
He looked around.
No one?
He gently placed the bowl on the ground and casually walked away. Then bolted.
Meanwhile, somewhere on the forest path below the mountain village, a royal rider arrived. His robes bore the Imperial Crest of the Vermilion Dynasty, golden thread glimmering in the morning light. The steel-gray stallion he rode on was no ordinary beast—its muscles packed with Qi resilience, its breath misting from its nostrils like fire.
Strapped tightly to his back was a long rectangular package wrapped in dark silk and bound with runes that flickered every few seconds. A sealed weapon. One that had responded to no hand for years.
He was passing through the mountain villages to avoid attention.
But trouble had other plans.
A rustle from the woods.
Then a whistle.
A crossbow bolt flew past his head, embedding into a tree.
Bandits—seven of them—poured from the brush, masked and armed with spears, machetes, and short blades.
The messenger drew his saber.
The fight began swiftly. Blades clashed, metal sparked, and the rider moved with skill honed by the capital guards, holding them off, but not for long. There were too many, and he was one man guarding a priceless artifact.
"Damn—!" he grunted, slashing at a bandit's thigh and barely dodging a strike to his side.
That's when a butterfly—deep blue with wings like folded paper—fluttered across the air.
Jin, who had been absentmindedly chasing it, stepped into the clearing—and stopped.
His eyes widened.
Bandits. Screaming. A rider covered in blood. A horse neighing. And one guy literally doing a spin move with a double dagger.
"…Nope."
The rider locked eyes with him. "Boy! Help!"
Jin blinked.
"Ah. Yeah. Help. Right." He turned and ran back the way he came, shouting, "Help! Bandits! Someone come! I'm not built for this!"
Everyone—bandits and messenger—froze in disbelief.
"…He's serious?" one of the bandits muttered.
Another bandit, irritated, stepped in front of Jin's retreat.
"Where d'ya think you're going?" he growled, sword drawn.
Jin backed up toward the rider, hands raised.
"I'm just passing through," he said. "Don't mind me. I know nothing."
The bandit swung. Jin ducked on reflex.
Instinct took over. Jin reached out, barely even thinking, and shoved the man backward.
The man flew twenty feet into the air. Crashed into a tree. Unconscious.
"…"
Jin stared at his hands.
"Did you—did you see that?" he asked the rider.
The messenger, now pausing mid-swing, just nodded slowly, eyes wide.
"I don't even lift," Jin muttered.
Two more bandits came at him, flanking him with clubs. Jin turned to dodge and accidentally backhanded one. The man spun like a top and collapsed. The other grabbed Jin by the collar—
Jin flailed. Elbowed him. Straight in the chin.
CRACK. Out cold.
Jin looked horrified.
"I didn't mean—He ran into me!"
He tried to explain to the rider, but at this point he was already a walking natural disaster.
One bandit screamed and ran at him. Jin panicked, lifted his foot, and the next thing he knew, the man had cartwheeled through the bushes.
The last two bandits looked at each other.
"Maybe… we should leave."
"Good idea."
They ran.
Jin stood in the middle of the path, arms out like he was surrendering to fate.
The rider finally dismounted, walked over, and looked him up and down.
"…What in heaven's name are you?" he whispered.
Jin shrugged, expression blank. "I was just trying to get lunch."