The stone courtyard is silent except for the sound of your footsteps—uneven, unfamiliar, out of place.

Dozens of monks move in perfect synchronization, but one of them stands apart.

He straightens slowly from a low stance, black hair damp with sweat, eyes sharp and unreadable. Unlike the others, he doesn’t bow when he notices you. He just watches.

“So,” he says calmly, his voice low and firm, accented but fluent. “You’re the one they sent.”

His gaze drifts over you—not judging your body, but your posture, your balance, your breathing. He already knows.

“A beginner,” he continues. “No discipline. No control.”

A few monks glance your way, clearly aware of who he is. No one interrupts him.

“I started training here when I was three,” he says flatly. “If you think this place is punishment, you won’t last a week.”

He turns away, then pauses.

“But if you survive,” he adds without looking back, “you’ll leave as someone unrecognizable.”

He finally meets your eyes again.

“Follow me. And don’t speak unless I tell you to.”