Morning crept slowly over the settlement.

  A pale grey light spilled across the crooked rooftops of the slums, revealing rows of leaning wooden huts pressed tightly together along narrow, muddy paths. Thin smoke drifted from cooking fires, mixing with the cool damp air left behind by the rain during the night.

  Chunma stood in the doorway of the shack where he had awakened.

  The rotten wooden roof creaked softly behind him as he stepped outside. The ground beneath his bare feet was cold and wet, the mud clinging to his toes as he looked out across the settlement.

  People were already moving.

  Men argued over bowls of thin porridge. Young disciples hurried between huts carrying sacks of food or bundles of cloth. Somewhere farther down the path, a group of boys were laughing as they shoved one another into the mud.

  No one paid Chunma any attention.

  He watched everything in silence.

  The memories of this body were still settling slowly into place. They came in fragments, pieces of a life that had not belonged to him.

  A slum.

  Hunger.

  Running errands.

  Being beaten.

  A sect.

  The Beggar Sect.

  Even without the memories, the situation was easy enough to understand.

  This place was poor.

  Very poor.

  The Beggar Sect was not like the famous martial sects spoken of in stories. They had no towering gates or grand halls carved into mountains.

  Their disciples lived in places like this.

  Hidden among the poorest corners of cities.

  Yet despite their appearance, the sect existed everywhere.

  Every city had them.

  Every road had them.

  Every market had beggars listening quietly to conversations that others believed were private.

  Information flowed through the Beggar Sect faster than through any noble court.

  That was how they survived.

  Chunma slowly lowered his gaze to his hands.

  Thin fingers.

  Bruised knuckles.

  Scars from countless small fights.

  He flexed them carefully.

  Weak.

  Untrained.

  This body lacked the strength he once possessed.

  “This body,” he murmured quietly, “is inadequate.”

  The words carried no frustration.

  Only observation.

  Strength could be rebuilt.

  Bodies could be trained.

  What mattered was understanding the world he now lived in.

  A voice suddenly cut through the morning air.

  “Well look who decided to crawl out.”

  Chunma lifted his head.

  Three boys were approaching from the path.

  They were slightly older than this body, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Their robes were patched like everyone else’s, but they walked with the confidence of those who believed they held power here.

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  Each of them carried a wooden staff.

  The boy in front grinned when he saw Chunma.

  “Thought the rat died in his sleep.”

  One of the others snorted. “Would’ve saved us the trouble.”

  The third stepped closer and jabbed the end of his staff into Chunma’s shoulder.

  “Didn’t we tell you to bring food last night?”

  Chunma remained still.

  More memories surfaced.

  These three were outer disciples of the Beggar Sect. They had been tormenting Chunma for months. Whenever they needed something done, they forced the weaker recruits to do it.

  Chunma had always been the easiest target.

  The leader crossed his arms and leaned closer.

  “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

  Chunma looked at him calmly.

  “No.”

  The answer was quiet.

  But it was clear.

  The three boys blinked in surprise.

  Then they burst out laughing.

  “Did you hear that?” one of them said. “The rat thinks he’s brave now.”

  The leader stepped forward and shoved Chunma hard in the chest.

  Chunma’s weak body staggered backward. His heel slid in the mud and he barely managed to keep his balance.

  “You forget your place?” the boy said coldly. “You don’t talk back.”

  Chunma straightened slowly.

  His mind was already calculating.

  These boys were not skilled.

  Their posture was uneven. Their weight shifted clumsily with each step. Even the way they held their staffs showed a lack of real training.

  But this body was weak.

  Fighting them directly would be foolish.

  The leader raised his staff and swung it lazily toward Chunma’s shoulder.

  The strike was slow.

  Predictable.

  Without thinking, Chunma shifted half a step to the side.

  The staff sliced through empty air.

  The three boys froze.

  Chunma froze as well.

  That movement had happened before he could think about it.

  The leader frowned.

  “What was that?”

  He swung again, this time with more force.

  Chunma moved again.

  Another small shift.

  Another clean miss.

  Now the laughter had disappeared.

  The second boy stared at Chunma.

  “Did you see that?”

  The leader’s face darkened with anger.

  “You think you’re clever?”

  He tightened his grip on the staff.

  Chunma studied him carefully.

  The boy’s shoulders were tense now. His grip was too tight. Anger had replaced control.

  “You are wasting your strength,” Chunma said calmly.

  The three boys stared at him.

  The leader blinked.

  “…What?”

  Chunma gestured slightly toward the staff.

  “If you move your right foot forward before striking, the swing will carry more force.”

  The boy’s confusion quickly turned to fury.

  “You little—”

  Before he could swing again, a voice spoke from the path.

  “That is enough.”

  The voice was calm, but it carried enough authority that the boys immediately stopped.

  Everyone turned.

  An older man stood a short distance away, watching the scene.

  His robe was just as worn as the others, but his posture was straight and steady. Grey hairs lined the edges of his dark hair, and his eyes were sharp beneath heavy brows.

  Elder Han.

  The three boys immediately lowered their staffs.

  “Elder Han,” the leader said quickly.

  The elder walked closer, his gaze passing over the three disciples before settling briefly on Chunma.

  He said nothing.

  But in his mind, the scene replayed itself.

  The first swing.

  The boy stepping aside.

  The second strike.

  Another precise shift of balance.

  No panic.

  No flailing.

  Just movement.

  Strange.

  Chunma stood quietly, looking down at his hands as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Elder Han turned his attention back to the other boys.

  “Morning training begins soon,” he said calmly. “Outer disciples should already be preparing.”

  The meaning was clear.

  The three bullies quickly nodded.

  “Yes, Elder.”

  Elder Han began walking down the path, but after several steps he glanced back once more.

  Chunma was still standing in the mud, silent and calm.

  For a brief moment the elder’s brow creased in thought.

  Then he continued on his way.

  The three bullies watched him disappear before turning back toward Chunma.

  But their expressions had changed.

  None of them spoke.

  Chunma ignored them.

  His gaze had returned to his hands.

  Weak.

  Untrained.

  But his body had moved before his mind could react.

  Instinct.

  He slowly clenched his fist.

  This world was unfamiliar.

  But the rules remained the same.

  Strength ruled everything.

  And if this era possessed new paths to power…

  Then he would learn them.

  From the very beginning.