Takeshi lingered by the alchemist's stall, watching the controlled burn in the distant fields. Farmers moved with practiced efficiency, setting fire to stubble that had outlived its purpose. The flames danced across the land—not as weapons, but as tools of renewal. A strange sight for one who had spent decades wielding fire's destructive force. Yet here, the elemental power served life, clearing away the detritus to make way for new growth. He found himself mesmerized by the simple, cyclical beauty of it all.

  "Burning away the old to make way for the new, even fire can bring life" the alchemist said, following his gaze. "Nature's oldest cycle." Takeshi gave a slow nod, his eyes tracing the flickering line of flames across the fields. The cycle resonated within him, a familiar ebb and flow that mirrored his own journey—the need to let the past burn away, to clear space for growth and renewal. Yet the scars remained, etched into his very being, a reminder that some fires leave permanent marks.

  Takeshi's calloused fingers traced the knotted flesh of his scarred neck, a grim reminder of the flames that had first awakened his connection to the Dao of Fire as a child. Twenty brutal years of war had honed his mastery, teaching him a thousand ways to weaponize the elemental force, to turn it into an instrument of death and destruction. Yet here, in this simple village, he witnessed its power serving life instead of taking it, clearing the fields to nurture new growth in the seasons to come. With a weary sigh, he pocketed the sleep pills the alchemist had provided, their solid weight a small comfort against the onslaught of nightmares that so often stalked his fitful rest.

  "What brings you to Yuanxin?" The old man's fingers continued working, crushing herbs with practiced motions.

  "Nothing worth mentioning." Takeshi dropped several coins onto the counter. "For your trouble."

  The alchemist pushed back half the payment. "Fair price is fair price. I don't rob travelers."

  A child darted past, nearly colliding with Takeshi's leg, his eyes locked on the sword belted to Takeshi's side—a Jain, with a handle wrapped in worn leather. Regardless of how many times the wrap had been replaced, etchings of flame appeared on it, the same that etched the surface of the crimson-tinted blade itself. The boy froze, eyes widening not with fear but with recognition as he took in the sword beneath Takeshi's cloak. His mouth formed a silent "O" of awe, gaze transfixed by the legendary weapon.

  "Are you him?" the boy whispered. "The Crimson Storm?"

  Takeshi stiffened. Ten years since the wars, yet his shadow stretched longer than his stride.

  "Just a traveler," he muttered, turning away.

  "My father fought at Broken Ridge!" The boy's voice carried across the marketplace. "He said the Crimson Storm saved their entire battalion!"

  Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the village square. Takeshi pulled his hat lower, cursing silently.

  "Boy," he growled, "go find your mother."

  The alchemist studied him with new interest. "The Storm that ended the Shattered Plains campaign? They say you burned—"

  "They say many things." Takeshi cut him off. "Most untrue."

  The old man's weathered face creased with understanding. "Legends grow taller with each telling." He gestured toward the inn across the square. "You'll want rest before heading to Yuanxin. The path follows the river, but bandits have been troubling travelers lately." A knowing look flickered in his eyes, as if sensing the weight Takeshi carried beneath his guarded exterior. He turned back to his work, leaving the warrior to contemplate the road ahead and the shadows that trailed in his wake, unwilling companions on this journey of self-imposed exile.

  Takeshi nodded his thanks and moved toward his horse. The whispers followed him, clinging like smoke.

  "—burned a thousand men—"

  "—sword that drinks blood—"

  "—eyes like hellfire—"

  His horse nickered softly as he approached. At least the animal held no judgment for his past. He secured his meager supplies and led the horse toward the village inn, a two-story structure of weathered timber and stone.

  Inside, conversations stuttered to silence as he entered. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with streaks of gray in her hair, measured him with a practiced eye.

  "Room for the night?" she asked, voice neutral.

  "And stabling." Takeshi placed coins on the counter, careful to keep his sleeve covering the distinctive scar.

  She counted the money, then handed him a worn iron key. "Second floor, last door. Stable's round back. Breakfast is included."

  After settling his horse, he climbed the narrow stairs to his room, tipping the stable boy a few copper coins as he passed. It was a spare but clean chamber—a straw mattress resting on a simple wooden frame, a small table with a single chair, and a basin of water atop a battered dresser. Through the window, he could see the fields still burning in the distance, tendrils of smoke curling upward to mingle with the darkening evening sky. The scent of scorched earth drifted in on the breeze, a familiar aroma that stirred memories he would rather forget.

  He removed his sword and placed it on the table, the worn leather wrappings of the pommel concealing the distinctive crimson-tinted steel beneath. The Crimson Blade. Once, he had carried it proudly. Now it was both burden and necessity, too dangerous to abandon, too infamous to display openly. The lacquered sheath—once polished to a mirror shine but now weathered by years of travel—contained more than just steel; it housed a fragment of his very spirit, bound to him through blood and fire during its forging.

  Takeshi ran a calloused finger along the hilt, feeling the familiar resonance stir within. The sword's grip was worn smooth by countless battles, each mark a memory etched in steel and blood. He could no more abandon this blade than he could cut out his own heart. It had become an inseparable part of him, as much a piece of his soul as the scars he carried on his skin.

  The crimson-tinged blade hummed with a subtle energy, recognizing the touch of its master. This was no ordinary weapon, but a physical manifestation of Takeshi's Dao of Fire, a reflection of his innermost nature forged through years of relentless cultivation and unflinching dedication. It responded to him alone, an extension of his will given form.

  Others who tried to wield it would find their hands scorched by the raw essence of Takeshi's spirit, the sword's steel burning with the fury of his Dao. This was no mere enchantment, but a profound bond between warrior and weapon, a unity of purpose and identity that could never be replicated or undone. The Crimson Blade was Takeshi's, now and forever, a relic of his past, a companion of his present, and a symbol of his unyielding path.

  Takeshi sat on the edge of the bed and removed one of the alchemist's pills, rolling it between calloused fingers. Sleep without dreams. A temporary escape from memories that refused to fade.

  The distant fires had transformed into glowing embers, their destructive work complete. Tomorrow, those fields would begin their renewal.

  "Even fire can become a cradle for life," he murmured, echoing the alchemist's words.

  He swallowed the pill dry and stretched out on the bed, not bothering to remove his clothes. As consciousness began to slip away, Takeshi wondered if there might be renewal waiting for him in this life.

  The thought dissolved like smoke as the alchemist's concoction took hold, dragging him down into artificial darkness. His last conscious sensation was of the Crimson Blade's faint resonance, a steady pulse that echoed his own heartbeat.

  But tonight, something felt different. The usual numbness that accompanied these dreamless nights gave way to an unfamiliar warmth, like embers stirring beneath long-cold ashes. Perhaps it was the herbalist's words still echoing in his mind, or maybe the sight of those burning fields had awakened something long dormant within him. Whatever the cause, as Takeshi drifted deeper into slumber, he felt not the crushing weight of his past, but the subtle promise of dawn.

  * * *

  Lian stabs her chopsticks into her rice, a deliberate breach of table etiquette that draws a sharp glance from her mother. She doesn't care. The entire evening has been unbearable—watching Chen bask in praise he barely deserves while she sits forgotten, a decorative daughter with no voice. The vertical chopsticks stand like a small rebellion in the midst of their carefully arranged table.

  Lian meets her mother's warning look with practiced indifference, though beneath the table, her fingers curl into a tight fist. Every compliment lavished upon Chen feels like another stone added to the wall being built around her future—a wall of expectations and limitations that grows taller by the day. She can feel the wind calling through the window, teasing her senses, reminding her of what freedom tastes like when she practices alone in the courtyard at dawn. Here, surrounded by polite conversation and political maneuvering, she might as well be invisible. Just another asset to be managed, like the family's dwindling tea plantation or their aging horses.

  "Your form in the final match showed remarkable improvement," Envoy Jia says, his weathered face creasing into what passes for a smile. "The Stone Sentinel Sect values disciplined progress over raw talent."

  The words land like stones in Lian's stomach. She watches the envoy's face, noting the calculating gleam behind his polite expression. Everyone at the table knows Chen's "improvement" came from endless drilling, not natural ability. Her brother had practiced that same sequence for months, repeating it until his hands bled and his legs trembled with exhaustion. She'd watched him stumble through it countless times in the courtyard, falling and rising again with grim determination while she mastered the same movements in mere days.

  Raw talent. The very thing Chen lacks and she possesses in abundance—yet it means nothing in this household of carefully maintained appearances. Lian stabs at her rice again, this time with enough force that the bowl shifts slightly. The injustice burns in her throat like poorly brewed tea.

  Chen lowers his eyes in practiced humility. "Thank you, Envoy. I hope to honor the sect's teachings."

  Lian's grip tightens. *Raw talent*. The words burn in her mind as she recalls their last sparring session three days ago, when she'd disarmed Chen in under a minute. Her brother had sworn her to secrecy, his face flushed with embarrassment. She can still feel the perfect moment when her body had moved without thought—a sidestep flowing into a twist that sent Chen's practice sword clattering across the courtyard stones. The wind had shifted just before she moved, and somehow she'd known exactly where to step, as if the breeze itself had whispered instructions to her muscles. Chen had made her promise not to tell their father, his voice tight with a mixture of shame and resignation that made her victory taste bitter rather than sweet. Another secret to keep, another truth to bury beneath the weight of family expectations.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  "Inner disciple status is rarely granted to new initiates," Father announces to the table, as if nobody has heard him say this five times already. "My son's achievement reflects the Feng family's commitment to excellence." The words echo hollowly in Lian's ears, each repetition more grating than the last. She wants to point out how Chen had nearly collapsed after his admission trial, how his "achievement" came from months of grinding practice rather than any real understanding.

  The servants bring in steamed fish, and Lian forces herself to eat despite the knot in her stomach. A breeze stirs through the open window, caressing her face like a sympathetic touch. She inhales, feeling that familiar lightness in her chest—her nascent Dao responding to the wind's call.

  "Lady Feng, this sea bass is exceptional," Envoy Jia says, turning to her mother.

  Mother's smile is perfect, practiced. "You honor us with your presence, Envoy. Our humble table hardly deserves such praise."

  Lian suppresses a snort. *Humble* is exactly what their table is—a minor lord's family straining to appear more prosperous than they are. The finest dishes reserved for tonight's honored guest, the good porcelain brought out from storage.

  "Speaking of local matters," Mother says, her voice shifting to a carefully casual tone that immediately catches Lian's attention, "have you heard about the merchant's daughter? The one who vanished three days ago?"

  The sudden change in topic makes Lian pause mid-bite. Her mother's voice carries that particular inflection she uses when discussing something deliberately alarming—the same tone she employed when warning Lian about "unsuitable friendships" with the servants' children. Lian recognizes the calculated concern, the way Mother's eyebrows draw together just enough to appear troubled without creating unseemly wrinkles. It's the voice of someone who wishes to appear appropriately distressed while simultaneously establishing their social distance from the tragedy.

  Lian looks up, surprised by this turn in conversation.

  Envoy Jia sets down his chopsticks. "Yes, most unfortunate. The fourth disappearance in two months."

  "All young women," Mother adds, with a pointed glance toward Lian. "The Li family has hired two guards from White Crane Academy. And I hear the Zhangs have contracted a full security detail."

  Father clears his throat. "Commoner girls, thus far. But one cannot be too cautious."

  Lian bristles. *So that's what this is about*. Not genuine concern for her safety, but fear of looking less protective than other families of their station. The realization shouldn't sting after fourteen years of understanding her place in this household, yet somehow it does.

  "Indeed," Envoy Jia nods gravely. "Which brings me to the matter we discussed previously, Lord Feng. I've acted upon your request for a suitable guardian."

  Chen looks confused, clearly not privy to these arrangements. Lian feels a flash of vindication at not being the only one kept in the dark, though it quickly sours into horror at the realization of what's happening. A babysitter? For her? The indignity burns in her chest, mixing with the familiar resentment that's been smoldering there all evening. First, she's denied the chance to compete despite her obvious talent, and now she's to be followed around by some war-hardened cultivator as if she were a helpless child. The wind outside seems to respond to her agitation, whistling more insistently against the eaves. She clenches her jaw, struggling to maintain the facade of proper decorum that's already wearing dangerously thin.

  "You've found someone... affordable?" Father asks, emphasizing the last word.

  "I've done better than that. I've secured someone exceptional." Envoy Jia straightens, clearly pleased with himself. "An acquaintance from the unification wars. His reputation extends across many sects."

  "A sect elder?" Father asks, hope and concern battling in his expression.

  "No. A lone cultivator. Arashi Takeshi."

  Mother's teacup clatters against its saucer. "The Crimson Storm?"

  Lian's head snaps up. Even she knows that name—the brutal fire wielder from the war stories, a man said to have burned entire battalions single-handedly. The Crimson Storm. A figure from nightmares and battle tales, whispered among servants when they thought the family wasn't listening. Children in the village scared each other with stories of how death himself couldn't claim him, that he would only rise again from the ashes like some terrible phoenix. Soldiers spoke of battlefields where nothing remained but scorched earth and the lingering scent of burning flesh. And this was the man they wanted to follow her around the estate? To "protect" her? The very thought made her stomach clench with a mixture of indignation and, though she would never admit it, a flicker of fear.

  "The very same," Envoy Jia confirms. "Relentless in battle, uncompromising in duty."

  Father's face remains carefully neutral, but Lian sees the calculations happening behind his eyes—weighing reputation against cost, prestige against practicality.

  "And he's agreed to... guard my daughter?" Father asks.

  "He's agreed to hear your proposal. He arrives tomorrow."

  Lian slams her cup down. "I don't need a guardian."

  The table falls silent. Chen stares at his plate, clearly unwilling to be drawn into this conflict.

  "Lianhua," Father says, his voice dangerously soft. "You forget yourself."

  "I haven't forgotten anything," she retorts. "I'm the one who should be celebrating tonight. I'm the one with actual talent. Yet I wasn't even allowed to compete!"

  "Lian!" Mother hisses.

  "And now you're hiring some... some war criminal to follow me around? Because other families are doing it?"

  Father's face darkens. "You will show respect to our guest."

  "The young lady has spirit," Envoy Jia observes, seemingly unbothered. "Perhaps that's why Lord Feng is wise to secure protection."

  The wind picks up outside, rattling the window shutters. Lian feels it calling to her, promising freedom beyond these walls, beyond these expectations that crush her from all sides.

  "May I be excused?" she asks, not bothering to sound sincere.

  Father gives a curt nod, clearly relieved to remove her from the conversation.

  Lian stands, bows stiffly to Envoy Jia, and leaves without looking at her parents or brother. The breeze follows her down the hallway, her only true companion in this prison of a home.

  Tomorrow, the infamous Crimson Storm would arrive. Let him come. She doesn't need protection—she needs liberation.

  * * *

  Lian paces the courtyard, tension building with each step. The morning dew has long since evaporated under the climbing sun, but she barely notices the growing heat. Her mind churns with last night's revelation—the Crimson Storm, here, to guard her like some precious vase too delicate for proper use.

  A servant girl approaches, bowing slightly. "Young Mistress, your father requests your presence in the study."

  "When?" Lian asks, already knowing the answer.

  "Now, Young Mistress."

  Of course. No warning, no time to prepare. Just another way to maintain the upper hand. Lian nods dismissal to the servant and takes a deep breath, trying to center herself as her wind teacher once instructed. The breeze responds, swirling gently around her ankles before dissipating.

  She makes her way through the house, deliberately taking longer than necessary, trailing her fingers along the polished wooden panels that line the hallway. Each step is measured, a small rebellion against her father's summons. The doors to her father's study stand partially open, and low voices drift out. One belongs to her father—measured, formal, with that diplomatic tone he reserves for important negotiations. The other is unfamiliar—deeper, with a quality that surprises her. It's soft and quiet, almost contemplative, not the booming voice she'd expected from a legendary warrior. There's a controlled precision to it, as if each word is carefully weighed before being released. Lian slows her approach, curiosity temporarily overriding her resentment as she strains to hear their conversation.

  Lian pauses outside, listening.

  "—primarily escort duties," her father is saying. "To her instructors and back. The tutors have grown... hesitant... to come here directly."

  "Because of the disappearances," the stranger—Takeshi—states. Not a question.

  "No, not exactly," her father replies with a sigh that carries through the door. "The instructors find my daughter... challenging. She refuses to follow traditional forms, abandons practice sequences halfway through, questions every technique. Three have quit outright, claiming she's too willful to teach properly. The remaining few agree to continue only if she comes to their academies, where their authority remains unchallenged by being on Feng property."

  "And the training?" Takeshi asks.

  There's a pause, and Lian can almost picture her father's diplomatic smile—the one that acknowledges a difficulty while minimizing its importance. "Lianhua has talent, but lacks the discipline to harness it properly. Perhaps your presence might inspire a more... focused approach to her studies. Nothing elaborate. Basic defensive techniques. My daughter has some... natural aptitude that could benefit from guidance."

  Lian nearly scoffs aloud. *Some natural aptitude*. As if her wind-form hadn't surpassed her instructors' expectations years ago. As if she couldn't already move faster than any of her brother's sect friends. Her father's talent for understatement when it came to her abilities never ceased to amaze her.

  "I don't teach," Takeshi says flatly.

  There's a brief silence that Lian can feel even through the door—her father absorbing this refusal, calculating whether to push back.

  "The protection and escort duties remain the priority," her father finally concedes. "Three young women in the past month. Daughters of merchants and peasants, primarily. The magistrate claims they're investigating, but..." Her father's voice trails off meaningfully, the unspoken implications hanging in the air between them.

  Lian feels a chill spread through her chest. Young women disappearing—not just one isolated incident, but a pattern. Her father had mentioned nothing of this at dinner, had spoken only of "unfortunate events" when explaining the new restrictions on her movements. How much else was he hiding?

  "Now, regarding compensation..." her father continues, shifting smoothly to the financial aspects of their arrangement, as if discussing the price of silk rather than her safety.

  Lian steps back from the door, suddenly not wanting to hear more. She's being bartered over like a commodity, her safety priced and purchased. The familiar resentment rises again, hot and suffocating. She considers fleeing, letting them wait, but knows it would only make things worse.

  Instead, she straightens her robes, lifts her chin, and pushes the study door fully open.

  The conversation halts immediately. Her father sits behind his desk, looking momentarily displeased at the interruption. Across from him sits a man who can only be Arashi Takeshi.

  Lian had expected someone more... imposing. Taller, perhaps, with the bombastic presence of the sect elders who occasionally visit. Instead, she sees a weathered man of average height, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back simply. His posture is relaxed yet alert, like a predator at rest. Most striking is the scar that curves from his left cheek down his neck—a burn mark, old but still visible. His eyes meet hers, and Lian feels a momentary chill. They aren't cruel eyes, but they've seen cruelty. Done cruelty, if the stories are true.

  "Ah, Lianhua," her father says, his tone shifting to one of practiced warmth. "Allow me to introduce Master Arashi Takeshi. Master Arashi, my daughter, Feng Lianhua."

  Lian bows with precise formality—neither too deep, which would suggest deference to a mere employee, nor too shallow, which would be improper for someone of his reputation.

  "Master Arashi will be accompanying you to your lessons and ensuring your safety when you leave the estate," her father continues. "Given recent events in the region, this arrangement is necessary."

  "Is it?" Lian can't help asking, though she keeps her tone carefully neutral. "I wasn't aware I needed a personal guard to visit my wind teacher."

  Her father's expression tightens almost imperceptibly. "The decision has been made."

  Lian turns her attention to Takeshi, studying him more deliberately. Up close, she can sense the contained power in him—not flaunted like the peacocking sect disciples, but present nonetheless. His qi signature burns steady and controlled, like banked coals rather than open flame, yet so muted she almost missed it entirely. How could this be? The infamous Crimson Storm, whose name made hardened warriors tremble, keeping his power so deeply submerged it barely rippled the surface. It was like watching a tiger pretend to be a house cat—the disguise might fool the eye, but something primal still recognized the predator. The restraint itself spoke of mastery far beyond what she'd encountered before, a control that made her own abilities seem like a child's first attempts at calligraphy.

  "And have you agreed to this arrangement, Master Arashi?" she asks directly.

  Takeshi meets her gaze evenly, his dark eyes revealing nothing. The silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and assessing. Lian fights the urge to shift her weight or look away, refusing to show weakness before this man who has been hired to shadow her every move. His scrutiny feels like a physical weight, as if he's cataloging her strengths and weaknesses with that single, penetrating look. Just when the tension becomes nearly unbearable, he simply inclines his head in a measured nod.

  Just that nod, offered without explanation or elaboration. Lian finds herself annoyed by his economy of speech. Does he think her unworthy of a proper response?

  "Then I suppose I should be grateful for your protection," she says, unable to keep a slight edge from her voice. "Though I wonder what threats require the infamous Crimson Storm as guardian to a minor lord's daughter."