The rain fell steadily outside, drumming a quiet rhythm against the tall windows of Song Bai Martial Arts School. The world beyond was a blur of gray — muted, distant — but inside, the silence was sharper than any blade.

Ruo Bai moved alone across the open floor, dressed in his black training Yuan Wu Dao uniform. His motions were precise, disciplined, beautiful in their restraint. Each strike cut through the air with control born of years, not just skill but purpose. No audience, no student, no rival. Just the echo of breath and the muted sound of water falling from the sky.

Sweat beaded along his brow, caught in the fabric clinging to his back. But he didn’t stop. He never stopped — not when it rained, not when it hurt, not when the weight of memory tried to pull him under.

At the edge of the mat, a wooden bokken rested untouched. He stared at it for a moment, chest rising and falling in silence, as if questioning whether to pick it up or leave it in peace.

The wind moaned low through the eaves. Somewhere, a drop of water hit the floor.

Ruo Bai straightened slowly, exhaling through his nose. He closed his eyes. Alone didn’t mean peace. But it was familiar.

And sometimes… that was enough.