It was sunset the same day they said goodbye to Brother Hinshu. The sky had begun shifting into those long, melting bands of orange and rose that always came just before real twilight, staining the Great Green and the distant hills with warm, quiet color. The caravan had traveled on for another couple of hours before pulling over to the side of the Road where a well-defined rest area had been established beside a narrow, clear stream. The water ran under the Road somehow, emerging from stonework channels set into the foundation, then spilling out toward the forest and eventually the sea.

  Algraves found himself staring at that for a moment, trying to imagine how the Road Monks had managed it. He still had no idea how half the things in this world worked and he was quickly learning that asking questions usually led to answers that only created more questions. Cultivation. Magic. Ancient craftsmanship. Whatever it was, he was done taking anything for granted.

  Ren Cai had mentioned earlier that Salt Peak was only two to three hours away, though the Cai merchants often chose to stop here. Not because they needed to, but because it was tradition, and because a little bit of peace and some fishing before hitting the city made the trip easier. That was often why the whole journey took four days instead of three.

  Algraves had no issue with that. He had not been fishing in a very long time. Decades, probably. Not counting the little half-remembered moments in between his rampages in the old world. Fishing had belonged to a different version of him. A better one.

  As camp came alive with practiced efficiency, fires being lit and bedrolls unfurled, Algraves found himself pulled toward the water. The stream looked inviting, cool and clean, shaded by low hanging boughs of some tree he could not name. One of the guards had loaned him a simple bamboo rod with a surprisingly long line tied to the end. The hook was carved bone, sharp and practical. He dug up a few worms near the bank and settled in.

  The steady burble of the stream helped him fall into a slow rhythm. His shoulders relaxed. The lingering weight of the afternoon slipped away. Night insects called from the grass and stones. The scent of woodsmoke drifted on the wind. He let his thoughts slow and cycle through what the Road Monk had said, what the bird had said, and what he had been doing with himself since waking up in this world.

  It all layered together into a strange haze of reflection until the rod jerked forward so violently it almost flew out of his hands.

  He yanked back and braced his feet. Something heavy fought him with steady power.

  When he hauled the fish out of the water he could not help but laugh. It did look like a trout. Sort of. Same shape. Same colors. Same mottled pattern. But it was massive. Thirty pounds at least. As long as his arm. Definitely not Earth trout.

  He held it up, letting the last rays of the sun catch along the silvery scales.

  “Jesus. Maybe this is what our world looked like before everything went to hell,” he muttered. He remembered stories of giant catfish in dam-restricted lakes back home. Whole ecosystems that flourished because humans had not touched them. He guessed this was something like that.

  Shrugging, he pulled one of his claw knives and cleaned the fish with the practiced ease of someone who had done it many times before. The blade cut easily, the flesh firm and oddly fragrant. Into the bag it went for later.

  He returned the pole to the guard, offered his thanks, and made his way back to camp.

  Dinner was simple vegetable soup and rice. Warm. Filling. Comfort food in a quiet, wholesome way. After he ate, he drifted toward an open space a little away from the tents and began stretching out for practice.

  A breeze brushed the clearing. The night smelled of earth and fire and subtle spices from the cooking pots. The sky was darkening into a canopy of early stars. All of it felt strangely nostalgic.

  He laughed, unable to help himself.

  “Feels like those old bad kung fu movies,” he said under his breath as he settled into stance.

  Seventies and eighties cheese. Bad dubbing. Slow-motion punches. Wires that were way too obvious. He could almost hear the poorly synchronized “Hai!” sound effects in his head.

  He worked through everything he knew. All the close combat drills. All the techniques he had picked up from military training, bar fights, self-defense classes, and random martial arts he had played with but never fully learned. The problem was immediately clear.

  He did not have a proper martial form. Not a whole one. Just a collection of things that worked when they worked and hopefully worked when they needed to.

  And then there was the other thing.

  His body kept trying to move differently.

  Cultivation nudged him. His instincts nudged him. Something in his core wanted him to sway, shift weight, change tempo, and do things he never consciously learned. Fluid. Off tempo. Off balance in a deliberate way. Unpredictable.

  At first he tried to resist it. Stick to what he knew. But it felt wrong to fight the impulse, like trying to write with his off-hand. Eventually he let it bleed into the drills. He shifted. Hopped. Rolled through movements instead of locking them in place.

  It felt strange, but not bad.

  Just unconventional.

  Half an hour into practice, Hu Bo passed by on a perimeter round. The man slowed down and watched Algraves move through a stutter-step sequence that looked half like a slip-and-strike and half like he was tripping over his own feet.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hu Bo snorted.

  “You fight uglier every time I see you.”

  Algraves barked a laugh.

  “It is a work in progress.”

  Hu Bo smirked, shook his head, and kept walking.

  Watching him leave, Algraves muttered, “What does he expect? I never had formal training. Guy probably thinks I am making it all up on the spot.”

  Then he paused.

  He slowly turned that thought over in his mind.

  Wait. Making it up on the spot. Piecing things together. Improvised movements.

  He suddenly stopped entirely.

  He could pick and choose pieces from kung fu movies now, could he not? No one here knew what those movies were. No one here would tell him he was doing them wrong. And if something worked, then who cared where he got it?

  He sank into thought.

  The movies had been terrible. Really terrible. Cheap and rushed and silly. But the choreography had been based on martial artists who actually knew what they were doing. The foundations were real, even if the execution was dramatic. And he had perfect recall. He could remember every frame of every movie he had ever watched.

  “Maybe…” he whispered.

  Then he sat down in the grass and dug through his memories.

  He had watched way too many kung fu movies in his youth. Two in the morning. Static-filled UHF channels. Nothing else to watch. Far too many midnight marathons when insomnia hit. There were dozens. Possibly hundreds.

  He could not use all of them. He should not use all of them. But he could choose a handful.

  “Okay. First one. Gordon Liu. Return to the 36th Chamber,” he murmured. “Self-Taught Scaffolding Style. The one where he learns by watching other people train while he builds bamboo scaffolding under them. That might actually work for footwork.”

  He smiled a little. That movie had been hilarious, even then.

  “Next. Drunken Master. Jackie Chan when he was still a baby. Wild movements. Off balance. Perfect for the weird impulses I keep getting.”

  He rolled his shoulders, imagining the drunken sway.

  “And Bruce Lee. Jeet Kune Do. Direct. Efficient. None of the nonsense.”

  Yeah. That felt right. Three influences. Enough to build something without getting lost.

  He stood again and began practicing, slow at first. Then faster. The clearing filled with the sound of shifting feet, rustling grass, and his own quiet grunts of effort.

  And it did not go perfectly.

  Some movements worked. Some absolutely did not.

  A Drunken Master sway worked with his instincts perfectly but when he tried to combine it with Jeet Kune Do’s direct strike, he almost punched himself in the leg. Twice.

  A scaffolding-style foot pivot let him dodge an imaginary strike cleanly, but when he tried to follow it with a spinning counter he tripped and had to catch himself before he face planted.

  At one point he tried a full drunken sequence and actually fell backward into a bush.

  He sat there for a moment with leaves in his hair and muttered, “Okay. Fail. Good to know.”

  But other things were promising.

  The offbeat timing from Drunken Master blended surprisingly well with his corvid instincts, letting him strike from angles he would not have considered before.

  The scaffolding footwork gave him a lower, more stable center when he blended it with military CQC.

  The direct simplicity of Jeet Kune Do smoothed out some of the more theatrical pieces, grounding them into something usable.

  He practiced into the night. Under stars. Under the whisper of trees and insects and the occasional flick of firelight from camp behind him. Over and over he shifted stance, struck, dodged, moved, adjusted. And somewhere in the middle of it all he entered a light meditative state that kept him rested without stopping.

  The next morning they reached Salt Peak.

  The city was busy even from the outskirts. Caravans coming and going. Smells of roasting meat, sea salt, fresh bread, and strange spices drifted through the air. Workers shouted as crates were unloaded. Bells chimed from some temple deeper inside the city. The entire place felt alive and crowded and vibrant.

  Four hours after arriving, the Cai merchants had their small clan pavilion set up. Goods were being prepped for the market. Runners were sent to scout for incoming shipments. Discussions filled the air. Plans. Prices. Negotiations.

  Algraves settled into his assigned bungalow. No private courtyard this time, but he could use the main courtyard freely. That was fine. He was not picky. He just needed room to move.

  Ren Cai explained that they would stay a week or two. Enough time to gather supplies, conduct trade, and prepare for the return journey.

  That was when one of the younger Cai cousins casually mentioned the tournament.

  It was a thing the mayor of Salt Peak did every few years. A showcase. A recruitment fair. An event to stir up business and draw attention from the Steppe Lands. Young cultivators of the First Realm could enter. The Steppe tribes often came looking for new blood. Good fighters. Ambitious individuals. People willing to work for spirit herbs or other supplies.

  Algraves listened in with mild curiosity. He had no interest in fighting children or teenagers, but a tournament of wide age range cultivators was something else entirely. It might teach him a lot. It might show him what actual cultivators looked like when they fought. That alone made it worth attending.

  He spent the next two days practicing again. Testing failures. Pushing successes. Learning which parts of the old movies were ridiculous and which were shockingly practical when blended with corvid instincts.

  He found that exaggerated Drunken Master stumbling was useless. But the unpredictable weight shifts were gold. He found that scaffolding-style high steps were a waste of energy. But the pivot-and-drop footwork worked beautifully. He found that Jeet Kune Do blended well anywhere timing mattered.

  He also found that if he tried a flying kick of any sort he immediately regretted it.

  On the evening of the second day he was going through a combination sequence when a soft voice spoke behind him.

  “Are you going to participate?”

  He nearly jumped out of his skin.

  He turned and saw the Theresa look-alike standing there. Calm. Silent. Watching him with eyes that were too familiar and too alien at the same time.

  He froze.

  He had spent two days telling himself not to freak out every time he saw her. It kind of worked. A little.

  With a slight tightness in his voice, he said, “I have not decided yet. I am still working on my fighting style. Might join. Might not.”

  In his head he was thinking, Where did she come from? Has she been here the whole damn time? Was she in the wagon? Why did no one tell me?

  She nodded.

  “The first prize is an invitation to a Steppe clan. They have need of cultivators. The tournament is for recruitment. There is conflict in the steppes. They want strong individuals to assist.”

  Algraves blinked.

  That was more interesting than he expected.

  He shrugged lightly. “I did want to see the steppes eventually. Not sure I meant right now, but I do not have a reason to avoid it either.”

  Her expression remained placid.

  “For those who help them successfully they are offering spirit herbs. Their tribe has many herbalists who can grow and strengthen natural treasures.”

  That caught his attention.

  Spirit herbs meant advancement. Strength. Growth. Real resources.

  He nodded again, tension still wound tight in his shoulders as he tried not to stare at her face and see Theresa.

  She bowed slightly.

  “Thank you for your time. You may call me Cai Yue.”

  Then she turned and walked away with the same poise his wife once had. Same pace. Same quiet grace.

  He stood there staring after her.

  “This is some fucked up shit,” he whispered.

  Exhausted emotionally and spiritually, he dragged himself back to his bungalow and fell into sleep.