Wudi Egun watched the cloaked man approach and felt the hair on his arms rise. The night air, cool and still, seemed to thicken around them; even the candlelight trembled as if afraid to witness what was coming.
"Who are you?" Wudi forced the sharpness into his voice, though it trembled at the edges.
The man's reply was calm, almost bored. "I am no one. But you will remember me for a long time." He closed the distance with slow, unhurried steps, each one measured like the movement of a blade.
Wudi's mind skittered. The voice sounded familiar—too familiar—but he couldn't place it. It was like hearing a half-remembered line from a dream. He swallowed. Whatever the recognition, he refused to let it bury him. He wasn't the sort to laugh this off.
"How may I help you?" he managed, throat thick.
The cloaked figure tilted his head as if considering Wudi like an insect under a glass. "Today my wife told me the neighborhood uncle is more handsome than I am," he said softly, the words absurd in the quiet room.
Wudi blinked. The sentence made no sense, yet the man said it as though discussing the weather. "What does that have to do with me?" Wudi asked, voice edged with irritation.
"Since she said that, I have been feeling down." The man's tone was flat and small—an old ache hidden beneath the blue cloth. He sighed behind his mask as if revealing a tragic intimacy.
Wudi's frown deepened. He was about to tell the man that this was ridiculous—when the blue-cloaked figure straightened, cracked his knuckles in a soft, deliberate snap, and announced, "Hence I want to beat you. Please cooperate for five minutes."
For a moment Wudi thought the world had tilted. Then anger, hot and incandescent, surged up. "Fuck off," he roared, fury cutting through his fear like a raw blade. "Who the hell do you think you are to come here and say you're going to beat me?"
The man's reply was a single small smile—no malice, no glee—only the quiet patience of someone who planned to do something unpleasant and saw no reason to hurry. "Cooperate," he repeated.
Wudi's knees locked. Pride flared; he wanted to stand and fight, to show that a Paragon Martial Spirit holder did not submit to petty violence. But the man's eyes—cold, precise eyes that had watched more blood and ruin than Wudi could imagine—held an unusual stillness. Before Wudi could choose his next word, the man moved.
It was not a charge. It was a lesson in single, economical violence.
The first strike was a flat palm to Wudi's chest. It landed like the collapse of a small door: air knocked out, ribs rattling, the taste of metal flooding his mouth. Wudi stumbled backward, knocked to one knee. Pain exploded through his torso, shameless and bright.
The second strike came as the man stepped in close—an elbow that clipped Wudi's jaw and sent his head snapping sideways. Stars burst across Wudi's vision. The world dipped and tilted; the floor seemed to lurch from beneath him. He tasted blood and copper.
Wudi had expected a brawl, a comic flurry to be shrugged off. He had not expected the precision—each blow placed to collapse structure, to unravel balance. The man's hands were small, but each movement spoke of countless hours practicing the art of ending fights in the fewest possible motions.
He hit the throat next—a palm across the windpipe that stole Wudi's breath and light at once. Wudi coughed, panic flaring. The man's foot slid behind Wudi's knee in a single smooth motion; Wudi pitched forward and the world inverted as his face met the ground.
Pain came in layers now: the sharp sting of impact, the slow burn from bruises gathering under the skin, the dull thunder of bones protesting. Every attempt Wudi made to rise was answered by a new, precise strike: a hook to the ribs that folded him, a sweep that sent him sprawling, a heel under his shoulderbone that pinned him face-first on the floor.
The blue-cloaked man moved as if he were demonstrating a craft—calm, almost gentle. No rage. No cruelty. Just efficiency. For every flinch Wudi gave, the man answered with a mapped correction, teaching through force. The strikes were not meant to kill; they were meant to break the arrogance that let a youth leap twice into molten medicine and expect miracles.
Wudi grunted and spat blood into the dust. His cheeks burned black and blue, a mottled map of humiliation. Every limb felt as if it belonged to someone else—numbed, heavy, raw. He tried to draw breath, to use the smallest memory of stance or counter, but the man's pressure never let him settle long enough to mount a proper defense.
When the five minutes were nearly up the actions slowed. The blows became fewer, the man's footfalls softer. He stepped back, hands folded as if bowing from a lecture well delivered. Around them the candle flame trembled; the room smelled faintly of iron and medicine and the sour sweat of exertion.
Wudi lay panting on the floor, his body a landscape of pain. His fingers twitched, trying to find purchase on the earth. Pride shivered in him like a wounded bird.
"Remember me now?" the man said quietly, the phrase a small knife wrapped in velvet.
Wudi tried to lift his head. The world tilted, images dripped like ink. He managed a laugh that sounded like a cracked bell. "You're insane," he rasped.
The man's hood shifted; a faint line of scar cut across the visible part of his face when he half-turned. "Insane men are interesting," he said, then turned and walked away—each step measured, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there at all.
When silence returned, it pressed heavy. Wudi lay on the floor, chest heaving, limbs trembling. Around him the aftertaste of violence lingered—sharp and clean. He felt naked in ways that had nothing to do with the bandages that once bound him: exposed, foolish, and oddly more human.
He could still feel the phantom weight of the blows—each one a lesson burned straight into muscle and bone. He had been beaten black and blue, his heart burning with flame of anger.
He will have his revenge !!
Whoever that man was , he needs to be taught a lesson !!
******
Gu Yin's voice cracked before the first tear did.
"My son, whoever did this to you—may his hundred generations be beaten black and blue just like you!" she cried, her words trembling between anger and heartbreak. Her hands shook as she dabbed a cloth over Wudi Egun's swollen forehead. Each bruise she touched made her lips quiver more.
The room was quiet otherwise, lit only by a small oil lamp flickering on the bedside table. The faint smell of burnt herbs lingered from the medicine boiling in the next room.
Wudi lay on his back, bandaged and barely able to move. His face was a mess of purple and yellow bruises; his lip was cracked; one eye nearly swollen shut. Even breathing hurt, but worse than the pain was the pity in his mother's eyes.
"Mother, please…" he whispered hoarsely, forcing a weak smile. "Don't curse people like that. It's not—"
Gu Yin cut him off, slapping the damp towel into the basin. "Not what? Not right? You nearly died again, Egun! This is the third time this month! You think that's normal?" Her voice rose, echoing through the house. "Do you think your mother's heart is made of iron?"
Beside her, Wudi's father, Wudi Han, sat silently on a wooden stool, his broad shoulders slumped. He had the calm, weathered face of a man who had seen too much of the world—but even he couldn't hide the worry carved into his brow.
"Yin, lower your voice," he said quietly, glancing at their son. "He needs rest."
"I will not lower my voice when my son looks like he wrestled a mountain and lost!" she snapped. Then she turned her glare toward Wudi again. "Egun, tell me the truth. Who did this to you? Was it the people from the Disciplinary Hall? Or someone from the Inner Court? Just say the name and your father will—"
"Mother, no one did anything," Wudi interrupted quickly, voice cracking with strain. "I… fell."
"Fell?!" Her voice shot up an octave. "You call this falling? Your whole body looks like it's been used for medicinal testing!"
"I really fell," he insisted weakly, looking away.
Gu Yin crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "You're lying. You always make up stories when you think I'll scold you."
"Yin," Wudi Han said softly, placing a hand on her arm. "Enough. He's still healing."
She shook his hand off but didn't argue further. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through her son's hair, her expression softening into quiet despair. "You look just like your grandfather when he came back from his first duel," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "Same foolish stubbornness in your eyes…"
Wudi sighed faintly, trying to smile through his bruised lips. "I'm fine, really. Just… a little sore."
Her eyes filled with tears again. "A little sore? Your body looks like you were trampled by spirit beasts." She took a shaky breath, glaring down at him again. "If you don't stop getting yourself into these accidents, I'll march to your master myself and demand he teach you how not to die before teaching you cultivation!"
That earned a quiet laugh from his father. "Yin, Hall Master Tian would probably welcome that conversation."
She shot him a look sharp enough to silence him instantly.
Wudi Han coughed lightly and turned to his son. "Son… tell me honestly. Was this someone's doing? If it's a disciple feud, we can resolve it quietly. Hall Master Tian would protect you."
"No, Father. No one attacked me," Wudi said, staring at the ceiling. "It's just… training went wrong. That's all."
Han sighed. "Training…" He shook his head. "Training shouldn't leave a man looking like he lost to the heavens."
Gu Yin huffed. "You're too soft on him, Han. If you had scolded him properly after the last time, maybe he wouldn't be doing this again!"
"I'm already in enough pain, Mother," Wudi muttered. "If you scold me any more, I'll die of guilt before my wounds even heal."
"Don't you joke with me, boy!" she snapped, though her eyes glistened. "I've buried too many hopes already—I won't bury my son!"
Wudi shut his eyes and turned his head slightly, pretending to drift off. Maybe if he looked asleep, she would stop.
But Gu Yin saw through it immediately. "Don't you pretend to sleep while I'm talking to you! You used to fake sleeping when you were six too!"
Even his father couldn't hold back a chuckle this time. "He gets that from you," Han said under his breath.
Gu Yin gave him a look that could have killed a lesser man, but the corner of her mouth twitched faintly, betraying a bit of exhausted amusement.
Finally, after another round of scolding and sighing, she rose from the bedside. "You're impossible, both of you," she muttered, taking the medicine tray. "I'll prepare another ointment. You—" she pointed at Wudi, "—don't move an inch. If I come back and see you standing, I'll tie you to that bed myself."
"Yes, Mother," Wudi replied quickly, as meek as a monk under divine pressure.
When she finally left, the room fell into a deep silence.
His father exhaled softly, rubbing his temples. "Your mother worries too much," he said with a weary smile.
"She always does," Wudi replied quietly, managing a faint chuckle.
Han gave him a long, thoughtful look. "You know, son… she's only like that because she loves you more than life itself."
"I know," Wudi said, eyes softening. "That's what makes it so hard."
Han nodded, stood up, and patted his son's shoulder gently. "Rest well. Whatever happened, you'll fix it next time. Just don't… break yourself before you get there."
After his father left, Wudi lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling beams. The night breeze slipped in through the half-open window, carrying the faint scent of rain and medicine.
"…Hundred generations, huh?" he muttered under his breath, smirking faintly. "Guess whoever beat me is already cursed for eternity."
He exhaled a quiet laugh that turned into a wince, his ribs protesting the motion—but he couldn't help it. Somehow, between his mother's fury, his father's calm, and his own stupidity, he felt a strange warmth lingering in his chest.
For the first time in a while, being beaten black and blue didn't feel so bad.