A hawk cut across the clear, cold sky.
Gliding high, it swept its keen gaze over dense forest, river, and ravine. It was hunting. It liked small prey—mice and snakes—but today it hoped for a large carcass. Perching and tearing meat beat chasing anything down.
Something sagging by the riverside caught its eye.
The hawk began to circle, tight and slow, to fix the shape. A human—so it seemed—lay collapsed with his head buried at the water’s edge. A horse cropped grass nearby. The scene made little sense to a hawk.
But the chance to eat without effort was too good to ignore. It tipped into a lazy glide. Rather than land straight on the fallen man, it settled on a riverside tree to watch a little longer.
From there, it saw the man’s upper body. His right shoulder was crimson. A bad wound. Maybe he’d come to rinse it and simply died.
And the horse? The hawk dismissed it. Horses with humans were always stupid and blank. Even if it started tearing the corpse, the beast wouldn’t react.
Wings spread, the hawk sprang toward the body—when someone appeared on the far bank. The hawk snapped its wings in, watching.
A girl came into view, a basket on her back. From her clothes and brown skin the hawk knew she was one of the humans who lived up the river. It wished she’d leave the body alone. Humans had the odd habit of burying their dead or piling stones over them.
Instead, she went warily closer to the fallen man—the hawk still wished he was a corpse—and then something that should have startled it did: the horse barred her path.
The brown horse that had been idly grazing now snorted at the girl like a watchdog guarding its master. She raised both hands, slid in carefully, and soothed it with strokes along the crest of its neck.
“It’s all right. I’m not here to hurt him. You’re a loyal one. Smart, too.”
The brown horse—near growling a moment ago—softened at her touch and praise, whickered, and let her lead it toward the body.
She dragged the man up from the waterline with careful hands and checked him over. Then, to the hawk’s disgust, she did the worst possible thing: grunting, she heaved the “corpse” over the saddle and tugged the reins, heading upstream.
The hawk weighed stooping to chase her off, decided it would waste strength for nothing, and flitted away. Better to find another target now.
Leading the reins, the girl glanced back at the distant sky. A dark speck dwindled among the blue and its scattered clouds.
She watched it a moment, turned, and drew the horse along again. The brown horse—Jojo—liked the way she stroked its neck and minced after her, pleased.
****
“Name, Jang Geon. Age, late twenties, looks like. Martial level: at minimum Martial Alliance patrol–master class… that’s it?”
Jeok Se-in stared at the opposite chair, unhappy. In the dark inn room, the person facing her wore a broad bamboo hat and a black veil that hid face and build completely.
He was the off-the-books contact Jeok Se-in had wrung out of the local Martial Alliance branch—their whisper-channel. She’d pushed for it after seeing the fist-work marks and deciding Jang Geon needed looking into while she folded in other tasks. And this “whisper” brought trash.
“What more would there be? He’s not famous from the Central Plains, not a house retainer. The wilderness is thick with drifters like him. He’s only in the rolls because he’s collected a few bounties.”
“Come on. If he crossed from the Central Plains, there’s got to be something—home province, family, something.”
Sanho broke in, unable to help himself. The veiled man’s attitude didn’t change.
“If you want his life before the boat, ask the Central Plains networks. I’m drowning just writing the Alliance’s month-end report. He’s not a key figure. He’s an unusual fist-user whose main weapon is a blade. What do you expect me to do?”
“Well… that’s not wrong, but… if you’re flying the whisper-channel placard, give us something—”
“The only extra I can give you is that the fist he used is not the Heaven-Quake Fist. The dead bandit’s skin was intact, wasn’t it?”
Sanho leaned in, finally hearing something useful.
“Yes. But his organs were minced.”
“Hm. Contrary to the usual talk, the Imperial Army’s Heaven-Quake Fist isn’t a ‘clean’ method. The organs turning to pulp matches what your man used, but the Heaven-Quake Fist is worse. One hit tears channels throughout the body and blooms horrific bruising head to toe. It gulps inner energy—so much that only the Army’s ancient monsters can use it.”
Sanho nodded, interested. Jeok Se-in’s face stayed hard.
“What if it’s a new fist built on the Heaven-Quake Fist?”
A dry chuckle came from under hat and cloth.
“Again: the Heaven-Quake Fist burns so much inner energy it’s practically shelved even inside the Army. For the same qi, you could swing a sword a dozen times. Because of its power it’s classified Class Jia and kept under strict lock. The Army ignores it for efficiency; sects and ancient houses never get to even see it. How would anyone ‘develop’ it?”
He leaned back in his chair and went on.
“I get why you suspect he’s an Imperial Army master. But a young expert of unknown origin isn’t automatically a covert Army man. He could just be very gifted. And if he likes collecting bounties, he’s at least useful to the Alliance. Nothing wrong with that.”
Jeok Se-in thought a moment, then sighed and rose. She held out a hand. The contact blinked, then understood, and passed over the prepared papers.
Downstairs on the first floor, the six children rescued from the Red Sand Brigade ate like they were storming a fortress. The real intel she’d wanted from the whisper had been where to return those kids and who the trafficking ring was. Jang Geon had been a throw-in.
Papers in hand, Jeok Se-in and Sanho gave a brief nod and left. They would send the children home and then smash the trafficking ring with the intel the whisper had bought. That was their work.
Left alone, the whisper listened to their boots creak down the stairs, then ripped off the hat.
“Ugh, fuck. Thought I’d die of suffocation.”
The man under the hat was Yang Gung. He wiped the sweat beading his brow and drew a paper from his coat. The note was short.
[Jang Geon. Second son of the Jang Family of Hunan. Said to have shown exceptional talent in martial arts since childhood. Merchant father wanted him in the Imperial Army. Later fell into unknown conflict with family. After the rift, wandered the Central Plains, then sailed for the New Continent. Many teachers in youth, but none above Class Bing.
Security level: Class Ding. Requested by Dark Dragon Seven.
P.S. — Why the hell are we curious about this guy?]
“…Damn it. That’s it? How about finding out what the family rift actually was? Why is the Empire’s intelligence this flimsy? And Class Ding? He soloed the Red Sand Brigade detachment and uses a Heaven-Quake–adjacent fist, and he’s Class Ding? The Imperial House and the Alliance—big bodies, no substance. No substance.”
Yang Gung—Martial Alliance whisper and member of the Imperial secret service, the Dark Dragon Unit—scratched his head, irritated. He weighed how to milk both outfits for more operating funds with this. Maybe he needed to find Jang Geon first.
He worked the area, taking the temperature and gathering information. Like Jeok Se-in, that was his job. “Martial Alliance” and “Imperial House” were just signs that made the job easier.
****
Laughter and chatter swelled from a crowd. So many people that shoulders bumped and no one bothered to apologize. Among them, some rose in a great balloon and whooped. Yet all of them lacked something—washed-out, thin.
Watching them, he realized his eyes were level with their waists. A warm hand held his right hand.
He turned. A woman. For some reason she was holding his small hand tight. Her face—still young, but life had worn it. Too many people soured her mood. In this pale world, she was sharp and clear. Feeling his gaze, she looked down; annoyed by the crush, she still forced a smile for her son.
He knew it pleased her, so he smiled back.
“Huh? He’s smiling.”
“Must be having a good dream.”
“Is he? Oh? Maybe not. He’s opening his eyes.”
Jang Geon dragged inner energy up on reflex through the fog in his sight. His dantian answered at once. Vision cleared enough to meet two faces filling it.
“Oh. With his eyes open he’s even better-looking. Best of the lot—even compared to the Central Plains folk down-village.”
“And if he’s handsome? So what?”
“Nothing. Just saying. You people say ‘what’s good is good,’ right?”
The two bickering over him—utterly ignoring him—were a girl and a middle-aged man. Both had healthy brown skin and uncanny golden eyes fixed on Jang Geon.
“Water, please.”
They both jumped at the sudden request.
“…He speaks our language.”
“…So he does. And not badly.”
“I learned a few words before. I don’t speak the tongue of the tribes beyond the mountains.”
The girl’s face lit up.
“Wow! You’re the first Central Plains man I’ve met who talks like this! You understand everything I say?”
“…Enough.”
“See? No wonder the horse you were with was smart. With a master like—”
She froze mid-grin. Color rushed into her face. She rose, trying to be casual. The middle-aged man asked:
“Where are you going?”
“…To get water.”
She whispered it and slipped out of the tent. He watched her go with a small smile, then turned back to Jang Geon and switched to the Central Plains tongue—smooth as a native.
“She’s embarrassed she called you handsome. She acts bold, but she’s shy.”
This time Jang Geon was the one surprised. The man’s Central Plains speech was flawless.
“…I’m Jang Geon.”
“Oh? You’re not going to ask how I speak your tongue so well?”
Jang Geon pushed up a little and noticed his jacket was off and the hole through his right shoulder was caked with thick, dried mud. A strong scent said it wasn’t just mud.
“Our two lands have known of each other for over a hundred years. I speak yours; you speak mine. Not that strange.”
“…Fair point. Every Central Plains man I’ve met so far has been surprised. I expected you to be.”
He eased his right arm. Even for a trained fighter, a through-and-through like this could cripple you. The poison he’d noticed late had worsened it. There was a reason he’d been facedown at the river.
“Mm. You put medicine on it. Thank you.”
Feeling the pain dulled, he said it. The man laughed.
“I’m not sure you needed me. From the last two days, I think you’d have healed anyway. Remarkable recovery, Jang Geon. Your ancestors must favor you. Ah—I’m Red Wind, in your people’s way of saying it. Glad to meet you.”
Red Wind—so, a warrior. Maybe trained. After introducing himself, he watched Jang Geon check the wound, then spoke suddenly:
“My niece will bring water any moment. Before that, a question.”
Jang Geon looked up. The man’s golden eyes shone as if to pierce through to the truth.
“Are you being hunted?”
“No.”
“Then why were you down in the ravine? That wound? I’m prying, I know. Help me be sure you’re not a threat. If you are, I’ll do anything to keep the tribe safe.”
Jang Geon weighed it. Too tired to recount the last few days. He let himself sink back and said:
“…Anyone who’d chase me is dead. Don’t worry.”
Red Wind blinked, then barked a huge laugh. Jang Geon listened to that hearty sound and watched the girl slip back in. He thought: however early history found them, they were not the helpless natives he’d been taught about.
He looked into her golden eyes and thought it again.