Chapter 1: The Ugly Boy at the Foot of Mount Wasan

Mount Wasan loomed like a silent titan, its peaks whispered about in martial arts circles as hallowed ground. Decades ago, the greatest masters had dueled for seven days and nights upon its summit to claim supremacy. Legends clung to its slopes like morning mist.

At its base nestled a humble village of seventy households, where life thrived despite its simplicity. Travelers bound for the mountain's martial tournaments brought coin and chatter, sustaining the villagers. Two decent eateries and a tidy inn lent it an air of prosperity rare for its size. The locals, long accustomed to warriors' comings and goings, moved with the quiet confidence of those who understood the ways of blade and fist.

***

A narrow stream curled around the village, its waters knee-deep except during monsoon rains. On its banks, a thirteen-year-old boy herded cattle beneath the afternoon sun.

At first glance, one might mistake him for a stray monkey—his knobby forehead too broad, lips too thick, arms dangling slightly longer than they ought. The village called him *Wukyaw* (Monkey Boy), or sometimes *The Ugly One*, though he bore the taunts without resentment. Names, to him, were merely markers, like notches on a tree.

Orphaned and raised by a grandfather nearing eighty, Wukyaw survived by taking odd jobs—hauling water, chopping wood, washing clothes. His body, misshapen from birth, drew pity even from passing martial artists. A wandering master once declared him unfit for training: *"Your bones are like twisted bamboo—no discipline can straighten them."*

Yet Wukyaw burned with a singular passion. While his body betrayed him, his heart beat in time with the legends of Mount Wasan.

***

"Ugh, this heat," he groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. The air itself felt scalding. "A sip of water, then a nap..."

He sprawled beneath a banyan tree just as a figure emerged from the shimmering heat haze—an old man draped in rags, hair matted like storm-wrecked reeds. Though his sandals gaped at the heels, he moved with unsettling lightness.

Wukyaw's nose wrinkled at the sour tang of unwashed flesh, but pity stirred in his chest. His own tattered loincloth and sun-blackened skin made him no prize either.

"Elder, rest here," he offered, clearing dried leaves for seating. "The sun's cruel today. Have some water—I brought it fresh this morning."

The old man's laughter crackled like kindling. "Polite lad. Ugly as a toad's wart, though. And those arms! Like a gibbon who lost a fight with a forge." He drained the water in one gulp.

Wukyaw bristled but held his tongue. The insult was nothing new.

"Tell me, boy," the elder leaned closer, eyes glinting. "You love martial arts, don't you?"

"More than breath itself," Wukyaw admitted. "But my body—"

"—is worthless for fighting. True." The old man flicked a flea from his sleeve. "Yet fate smiles today. I'll teach you what no master can: how to *breathe*, *sit*, and *sleep* like a true warrior."

Wukyaw blinked. These were things infants knew!

"Clear those leaves," the elder commanded. When the ground lay bare, he spoke four lines that would etch themselves into Wukyaw's bones:

*"Still your thoughts like a frozen lake,*

*Feel the blood beneath your skin.*

*Calm minds birth lightning,*

*Fire flees before winter's kiss."*

Under the scorching sun, the boy learned to lie sideways, aligning breath with heartbeat. At first, his mind thrashed like a netted fish. Then, slowly, warmth pooled in his belly—a golden ember rising through his core—until sleep took him.

***

Three years passed.

Seasons wheeled above Mount Wasan. Wukyaw, now sixteen, practiced the elder's teachings at dawn, mealtime, even mid-piss. What had seemed foolish now revealed its genius: his focus sharpened, his stamina deepened. The "useless" exercises were in fact the lost inner arts of the *Chuan Jing* sect—techniques so profound they'd vanished from the world.

Yet destiny cares little for hidden gifts. On his deathbed, Wukyaw's grandfather tore open the sky of his life:

"Listen well... I'm not your blood kin. Your true grandfather is *Yan Kun*, lord of the Five Great Martial Houses. Your mother was his daughter—raped by a wandering master who left her broken at their gates. When you were born... deformed... they called you a demon. I stole you away, paid with this wound..."

A cough wracked his body. Blood speckled the straw mat.

"Find them, boy. Demand why."

The last breath left him like a sigh. Rain hammered the roof as Wukyaw stood motionless, fists clenched. Water streaked his face—rain or tears, even he couldn't tell.

In that moment, something feral uncoiled within his chest. The gentle herder was gone. What emerged from the storm would one day shake the martial world to its roots.

---