Within the crumbling walls of the mountain shrine, shrouded in an eerie mist, the Crimson Drake's tail coiled about the beggar's knees, its form fading into translucence, lending the man a presence both divine and foreboding. Li Yongyi's heart quaked, for only through the Bronze Cauldron of the Ancients could he glimpse this ethereal vision, its resonant roar echoing in his soul, unseen by mortal eyes.
A month prior, this man's presence had stirred the Cauldron, dormant for a decade, awakening its power. The Serpent's Vein Curse, which gnawed at his life, was quelled, its jade-essence swelling within, granting him a mystic sight to behold the Drake. With death's shadow looming, the Cauldron was his salvation, and this man his key.
Li dimmed the azure glow in his eyes, the Drake's image vanishing, and knelt upon a worn mat, arranging roast fowl, steamed buns, and a jug of wine before the shrine's idol. For a month, he had posed as a devout youth, leaving offerings that the beggar consumed, visiting every few days for a mere incense-stick's time—enough to stir the Cauldron's essence without rousing suspicion, biding his time to forge a bond.
But the riders' arrival, their cloud-wrought sigils a grim echo of that rain-soaked night, left no room for delay. Finishing his prayer, Li spoke softly, "Today, riders in beast-patterned crimson, led by a youth with cloud-wrought sleeves, stormed the apothecary, claiming a fugitive sought to breach the gaol. They seized the herbs and posted a notice—five hundred taels for word of the rogue. I pray the shop returns to peace."
The beggar's eyes opened, and a low, draconic rumble filled Li's ears. Without the Cauldron's aid, his vision split: one world of broken stone and decay, another ablaze with crimson mist, where the Drake's head loomed, brushing his brow, stirring his hair. The mist parted, and the beggar stepped forth, wreathed in draconic aura, as the Cauldron's jade-essence surged.
The man studied Li, recalling a month of quiet observation: the boy's frail kindness at first, bringing food; his thoughtfulness when, after a grumbled thirst, wine appeared the next day. No fool's charity, but a keen mind with purpose, yet silent until now, speaking to the idol, not accusing the fugitive outright—cautious, measured, wise beyond years.
With a hearty laugh, the beggar bowed deeply. "My thanks, young friend, for your kindness these past weeks, sating my hunger! And now, for this warning—though it seems my refuge here grows perilous." He sat, tearing into the fowl, gulping wine, devouring a feast fit for a family in moments. Picking his teeth with a bone, he sighed, "Well fed, at last."
He continued, "I'm wounded, loath to clash with those hounds. Your tidings demand a debt." From his rags, he drew a luminous pearl, the size of a thumb, and offered it. "No gold or silver on me, but this gem's worth a fortune—take it!"
Li gazed at the radiant orb, worth a king's ransom, but shook his head. The beggar chuckled, "My error. Were you greedy, you'd have sold me to the magistrate for five hundred taels, safer than this bauble." Li replied, "Not so. The pearl's precious, but I lack the strength to guard it—only trouble would follow."
The beggar's eyes gleamed. "Then what do you seek?" Li's mind raced—the Drake tied to the Cauldron, a secret he could not share; the curse's origin, a bloodied night a decade past, too dangerous to reveal. He lifted his gaze, voice firm: "I wish to learn the martial arts from you."
Haunted by that night's iron hooves and cloud-wrought shadows, he craved the power to shield himself and his aunt. The Cauldron and this man were his only hope. The beggar studied his eyes, then grinned, vanishing in a blur to stand behind Li. A hand pressed his shoulder, testing arm and spine. "Fine bones, but poisoned—your sinews weakened, your potential dimmed. This bruised back—work of those riders' lackeys? Mere bullies."
A gentle pat sent warmth through Li's frame, erasing the bruises. Sitting cross-legged before him, the beggar stroked his beard, musing. The boy's mind was sharp, his caution rare for his age, yet his submission to the riders—hiding his face—lacked a warrior's fire. Still, talent stirred his heart, and a test was due.
"The riders have my scent; I leave tomorrow," he said. "This night is the Ghost Festival. Come here at midnight, if you dare, and I shall teach you an Arcane Art."
In this desolate shrine, at the witching hour, meeting a fugitive demanded courage. Li's pulse quickened, sensing a perilous chance.
*(End of Chapter)*