Sheung

Sheung Longyao never imagined that an old wooden calligraphy brush and a dusty journal would catapult him into a forgotten world of Taoist magic, ancient sects, and mystical cultivation. When he’s suddenly transported to the elite Celestial Academy—a school for the world’s most powerful magical families—he finds himself assigned to a house no one respects: the long-abandoned Taoist Sect.

Mocked, underestimated, and alone, Sheung discovers that he carries the bloodline of a legendary dragon cultivator—and the last living connection to a spiritual lineage the world tried to erase.

Guided by the sarcastic and mysterious Brush Spirit, Sheung begins to learn the lost art of Fu talismans—magical calligraphy fueled by heart, spirit, and will. But the academy is full of rival heirs, deadly challenges, and ancient secrets that even the gods fear.

To survive, Sheung must rebuild the Taoist Sect from the ashes, face corrupt nobles, befriend unlikely allies, and unlock the true power of his dragonblood. Because hidden deep within the mountains... something old is waking.

And it remembers his name.

Rise of the FU Master

The late morning sun beat down on the martial yard, where dust curled beneath bare feet and the low thud of wooden staves echoed across the open space. Sheung stood centered in the sparring ring, chest rising with steady breath, staff held in both hands. Across from him, Nilo grinned lazily, spinning his own staff in a loose arc as they prepared to go again.

"Keep your back heel light," Nilo called. "You're still too rooted. You need to be water, not a tree stump."

Sheung smirked, adjusting his stance with a grunt. "You could've told me that before you swept me flat last round."

"Where's the fun in that?" Nilo laughed.

They circled. Nilo struck first with a few quick jabs, low and testing. Sheung responded, blocking two, pivoting, but he was just a beat too slow. Nilo dropped low, reversed his grip, and spun his staff like a wheel, sweeping Sheung's legs out from under him. Sheung hit the dirt with a solid thump, a puff of dust blooming around him.

A snide voice rang out behind them.

"Well, that about sums up staff fighting, doesn't it?"

Zev sauntered into view, flanked by three sword-bearing students in crisp blue tunics. Their blades were still belted from drills, gleaming at their hips. Zev's eyes flicked down at Sheung sprawled in the dust, and his lips curled.

"Flailing a stick like some village farmer. Just gets you knocked on your arse."

One of his cronies laughed. Another muttered something about broomsticks.

Sheung pushed himself up on his elbows, scowling.

Zev didn't stop. "Honestly, Sheung. All that brush magic and stick-waving—it's a miracle you haven't accidentally cursed yourself yet."

Nilo stepped forward and offered a hand, smiling at Sheung. "Ignore him. Even loud roosters get cooked in the pot eventually."

Sheung grasped his hand, standing. "Thanks."

Nilo leaned in with a smirk. "Besides, we've got a tournament coming up. You'll get your turn then, and I want a front-row seat when you wipe that smug grin off his face."

Arkell, who had been quietly watching from the edge of the training circle, clapped once, sharp and deliberate.

"If you're done posturing, Zev," he called, "there are open rings downfield. Use them. Or are your boys too fragile to train near a staff?"

Zev's smile stiffened, but he gave a mock bow. "Of course, Instructor Arkell. We wouldn't want to interfere with... peasant weaponry."

He turned on his heel and stalked off, his entourage in tow, but not before a final sneer was thrown Sheung's way.

As the dust settled, Sheung gripped his staff a little tighter.

Arkell approached slowly, resting his hand briefly on Sheung's shoulder. "Let them talk. The staff demands patience. But when it strikes," he glanced toward Zev's retreating form, "it strikes harder than they ever see coming."

Nilo gave him a playful nudge. "Now get back up. I still owe you another knockdown."

Dust and Determination