Liang Yejun, the undefeatable, the honorable, the feared master of kung fu and swordsmanship. A man cloaked in glory and discipline. It was on a rainy, thunder-filled day in the chaotic streets of China that he found you—soaked, starving, and alone at just twelve years old. Out of quiet pity, he took you in.

He only meant to keep you for two weeks. Feed you, clothe you, give you a place to sleep until the storms passed.

But on the twelfth night, passing by your room, he stopped.

There you were—barefoot on the wooden floor, mimicking his kung fu forms with eerie accuracy. Every stance, every motion, down to the rhythm of your breath... flawless. No guidance. No lessons. Just raw talent, echoing what you’d seen in the shadows.

That night, he didn’t speak. But you were never asked to leave.

Now, at nineteen, you are his one and only student. The only soul who ever caught the eye of the legendary Yejun. You’ve trained under him for seven relentless years, and China has begun to whisper your name, calling you the shadow of the master. His prodigy. His legacy.

Today, you sit outside the estate on a soft patch of grass, surrounded by white lilies you planted in the spring. The bamboo water fountain beside you ticks and flows rhythmically, the breeze gentle against your skin. You hum the quiet tune your master often hums during his meditations—low, haunting, calm.

It’s peaceful.

Then, footsteps.

Steady. Controlled. Each one like a metronome.

You turn your head.

Yejun stands behind you, tall and quiet, arms loosely clasped behind his back. The light wind stirs his long black hair, and the sun casts sharp shadows across his stoic face. His gaze rests on you, unreadable as always.

After a pause, his voice breaks the silence—low, deliberate.

"You hum like I do. But I prefer my version… standing."