This world was… unique.
Martial arts academies existed here, sure.But not like the ones from fantasy novels.
For a moment, I thought I'd transmigrated into a classic wuxia setting.Turns out—nope. Total scam.
The "academy" was run by an old man with wrinkled skin, a long beard, and that all-knowing fake smile.The kind of man who wore his "wisdom" like a costume.
Some folks even claimed he was a deity.Yeah. A deity who charged three silver coins just to let you watch people wave sticks around.
I paid anyway. Just for the experience.I took the silver from a guard I'd robbed last week. He didn't need it anymore.
Inside the academy, everything was for show.
Rows of students practiced in open courtyards, following stiff routines that looked more like awkward dancing than any real martial form.No energy manipulation. No true power. Just physical drills and loud shouting.
Fake swords.Even faker techniques.And not a single useful instructor in sight.
I was bored within ten minutes.
The "martial arts" here were more about tradition than combat.It was like watching people reenact ancient battles with wooden swords—rituals wrapped in formality.
A few younger students were earnest. They tried.But they didn't know the truth.
They were training under a fraud.
On my way out, I met someone interesting.
An old man, probably in his late sixties, wearing a brown healer's robe, was sitting under the shade of a tree with a stack of herbs beside him.
He looked at me for a moment, then spoke.
"You from the Eastern Isles, boy?"
I blinked.
"Yes."
He smiled, half-toothless. "Figured. That hair. And those eyes. Doesn't scream 'sun-blessed.'"
I didn't correct him.
He patted the space beside him. I sat.
"Been a doctor here for twenty years," he said, rubbing his knees. "A small one. Meager skills, meager pay. But the students break bones often enough to keep me busy."
I nodded. "You treat them with herbs?"
"Herbs. Patience. Sometimes divine luck."
He chuckled.
"And what do you think of the founder of this 'sacred' academy?"
I shrugged. "He seems old."
"Ha!" The doctor laughed so hard he nearly coughed his lungs out. "Old raccoon's a scammer, that's what he is. If you spend a full day with him, you'll lose faith in martial arts, gods, and your own parents."
I raised an eyebrow.
"He prances around in white robes, quoting ancient texts out of context," he continued. "Calls himself 'Master Xialun the Enlightened Flame.' Bah! Enlightened my foot."
I smirked. "Yet you work here."
"Oh, of course," he said with a grin. "I'm no saint. That raccoon's con keeps my belly fed. So I treat the sprained wrists, pretend to respect him, and keep my sarcasm internal—except when I meet visitors like you."
We spoke for a while.
It was the first decent conversation I'd had in weeks.
He introduced himself as Old Dao, though he admitted the name was self-given to make him sound wiser.
"Most folk from the east are either quiet or mad," he said. "Which kind are you?"
"Maybe both."
He laughed again. "I like you."
We shifted topics naturally.
From gossip to culture, then to mythology.
"So, do you lot in the East still believe in those sea spirits?" he asked.
"Some islands do. Some think we descended from the stars."
"Pfft. Here in the Central Continent, we're all 'descendants of the sun,'" he said mockingly. "You'd think people would stop believing every priest who wears golden robes."
"People need myths," I replied.
"They do. But they should pick better ones."
He leaned back, chewing on a sprig of mint. "Did you hear about the Crown Prince?"
"No."
"He ran away."
"Why?"
"Grief, they say." He lowered his voice. "After the queen died. Slipped out of the capital with just a few guards. Left the court in chaos."
"And the king?"
"Half-mad with sorrow. The throne's full of ministers whispering like snakes. The prince's younger brother is too young to take power. So everyone's scrambling."
"Any chance the prince returns?"
Old Dao shook his head. "He won't. I saw the boy once. Too much kindness in him. This world eats people like him."
We kept talking.
About the world. The east. The sun myths. The absurdity of "divine martial arts."I told him I'd tried making friends, but between the language barrier and my weird golden eyes, people mostly avoided me.
He patted my shoulder.
"They fear what's different. But different doesn't mean wrong."
"Spoken like a doctor."
"Spoken like an old man who's too tired to judge anymore."
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, I stood.
Old Dao waved lazily. "Come visit again, Eastern boy. I enjoy talking to strange people. You help make this cursed place interesting."
I nodded and walked off.
I didn't have friends. Not really.But if I had to name the first person in this world I didn't hate—
It might be him.