The next morning, fog rolled in off the river like a ghostly tide. It clung to the village of Dazhu Port, softening the outlines of huts, nets, and boats until everything seemed part of a dream.
Li Shenhai stood by the pine tree overlooking the river, staring at the scroll.
The crack in the seal had widened overnight.
Only slightly, but enough to prove the dream had been real. The wax was ancient—spiritual in nature—and not easily broken. Something had shifted. Something was beginning.
His grandmother was inside, grinding herbs. He had told her nothing. Not yet.
A splash in the water broke his focus.
He looked down the slope toward the riverbank—and froze.
A boat had washed ashore.
It was narrow, made of blackened cypress wood, and half-sunk at the edge of the reeds. Tied crudely to its prow was a talisman scrawled in blood-ink: an eight-pointed lotus pierced by a serpent.
In the boat lay a man.
Or what was left of one.
He was tall and gaunt, robed in tattered monk's cloth. His head was shaved save for a single braid at the back, soaked in river water. His chest was bare, revealing faded tattoos—sigils from long-forgotten Buddhist sects and Taoist schools. His arms were burned, his wrists bound in broken prayer beads.
One eye was swollen shut. The other snapped open as Shenhai stepped near.
"Help me… or kill me quickly," the man rasped.
Shenhai hesitated.
Then stepped forward.
⬖⬖⬖
By midday, the man lay wrapped in blankets inside Shenhai's home. The fire burned low, casting shifting shadows across the room. His grandmother had said nothing—only nodded when Shenhai carried the man in.
As she ground root into a poultice, she murmured, "That one carries the scent of blood and lightning. This is not coincidence, boy."
The stranger awoke as the storm rolled in that night.
"You touched the scroll, didn't you?" he asked, without preamble.
Shenhai stiffened. "How do you know?"
"I felt it. Across the river. Across the provinces." His voice was gravel, torn by days of shouting. "The seal is breaking. The Pact is weakening."
"What pact?" Shenhai asked.
The man sat up slowly, wincing.
"I am Monk Baimu," he said. "Once of the Iron Bell Monastery. Once loyal to the Heavenly Scribes. Now hunted."
He looked Shenhai in the eyes, his gaze like cold steel behind fire.
"Your father entrusted that scroll to your mother. She died protecting it. And you… you were marked by it before birth."
Shenhai's breath caught.
"You knew my father?"
"I walked beside him on the Night of Thorns," Baimu whispered. "I saw him slay ten Wraith Generals with a blade of storm and silence. I saw him fall into the Sea of Ash and vanish with the Sky Writ."
Silence. Only rain tapping on the roof.
Baimu continued, "You are not ready. But you are out of time."
He reached into his tattered robes and drew out a charm: half a medallion, shaped like a lotus, engraved with the name Li Zhen.
"My vow is not to your bloodline. It is to the oath your father died for." He leaned forward.
"If you want to survive what's coming… if you want to learn why the river whispers your name… then come with me at dawn."
"To where?" Shenhai asked.
"To the Ruins of Jiuhua. Where swords drink starlight and mountains remember the dead. There, your training will begin."
Outside, thunder cracked. The river surged.
And beneath their home, the sealed scroll pulsed faintly with crimson light.