The folk of Tongzhou rejoiced.

  That evening, they gathered at Kim Tun’s courtyard restaurant in numbers the small establishment had never known.

  The courtyard overflowed.

  Every bench, every stool taken.

  Yet no one minded.

  Families arrived with their own low tables, woven mats, and even folding stools carried from home.

  No formal gifts were exchanged.

  Instead, offerings of food appeared—steaming pots of home-cooked vegetables, trays of sweet red-bean pastries, baskets of fresh river fish still glistening.

  All lay upon shared tables with open hands.

  Uncle Kim Tun, heart brimming, worked the kitchen without pause.

  Tonight was a celebration.

  Every dish offered at half price—or less.

  Yet the people would not hear of it.

  They pooled coins in advance, pressing payment upon him with smiles and bows.

  Some brought live chickens clucking in bamboo cages, ducks quacking indignantly, fish swimming in buckets—tokens of gratitude freely given.

  Who could deny such merriment?

  Life had been harsh too long.

  Taxes crushing.

  Beasts prowling.

  Bandits demanding tribute.

  Now, for one evening, fear had lifted.

  The Heavens, in their mercy, had sent a dragon to guard the humble.

  And the dragon asked for no throne.

  Han Sen insisted on his usual duties.

  Apron tied, sleeves rolled, he carried platters heavy with duck and noodles, bowls of fragrant broth, plates of glistening vegetables—moving between kitchen and tables with tireless grace and quiet smile.

  To see it, many wept openly.

  When had they ever beheld their savior—the youth who shattered the Dark Emperor’s tyranny—serving them like any common waiter, refilling tea, wiping spills, asking softly if the food pleased?

  Children stared in awe.

  Elders pressed extra coins into his hand, only to have them gently returned.

  Musicians appeared—sitars and drums were carried from home.

  Melodies rose lively beneath the darkening sky.

  Bamboo torches were lit—flames dancing, casting golden light across laughing faces.

  Then Kim In stepped into the open space.

  Small but strong, she began to dance.

  Movements fluid yet powerful—inheritance clear in every turn of wrist, every stamp of foot.

  The bone structure, the coiled muscle of her grandfather, Kim Leng Pau, master of God’s Palm, lived in her young form.

  All watched, captivated.

  Grace born of blood and training.

  Joy born of freedom reclaimed.

  At the edge of the circle, upon a cushioned bench, sat Kim Tun’s mother—the grandmother who had knelt in tears at her son’s return.

  Now her eyes shone with quiet contentment, hands folded in her lap, watching her granddaughter dance beneath torchlight.

  Once, she had feared her line ended in sorrow.

  Tonight, the courtyard rang with life.

  Her son cooked for a thankful town.

  Her granddaughter moved like a living legacy.

  And the quiet youth who had saved them all served plates with gentle hands.

  She smiled—small, steady, tears tracing silver paths down weathered cheeks.

  Another elder matron settled beside Kim Tun’s mother upon the cushioned bench, their conversation flowing with the lightness of old friendship, bringing a gentle beauty to faces etched by years and hardship.

  Kim Tun’s mother turned, eyes warm in the torchlight.

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  “Han Sen, come closer,” she called softly. “This is an old friend from days long past—Li Peng.”

  The aged woman inclined her head with quiet grace.

  “Please, call me Aunt Peng.”

  Han Sen bowed respectfully.

  “Aunt Peng served within the imperial palace in Chang’an for many years,” Kim Tun added from nearby, wiping hands on his apron.

  Han Sen’s interest stirred.

  “How fares Chang’an these days, Aunt Peng?”

  Aunt Peng’s gaze lingered upon Han Sen’s face—handsome, youthful, yet carrying a quiet depth.

  She studied him for a long moment, a flicker of bewilderment crossing her weathered features.

  “This… hahaha,” she murmured, voice distant with memory. “It is quite something. Really quite something.”

  Kim Tun’s mother leaned closer.

  “What troubles you, Li Peng?”

  Aunt Peng shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving Han Sen.

  “It is this. For decades within the palace, I was as if I did not exist—a shadow, unseen. Then a favored consort arrived—a woman of exceptional kindness. I attended her, and in turn, she treated me with warmth I had never known.

  For the first time, I felt… human.”

  She paused, gaze softening.

  “And this young man… Han Sen… his face bears a striking resemblance to my lady.”

  “Truly?” Kim Tun’s mother asked, surprised. “Han Sen resembles her?”

  “Indeed,” Aunt Peng said, voice quiet yet certain. “Look closely—his eyes, the shape of his nose, the arch of his brows. Only the mouth differs. My lady was a woman of surpassing beauty. This youth is her echo in masculine form.”

  Han Sen chuckled, a faint blush rising.

  “Ahhh… Aunt Peng, you tease me.”

  “It is no tease,” she replied gently.

  “Tell me—what was your lady’s name?” Kim Tun's mother inquired.

  Aunt Peng’s voice softened further.

  “Her name… was Siu Chen.”

  Han Sen, who had begun to rise, froze.

  The world narrowed to that single name.

  Siu Chen.

  His mother’s name.

  He returned to the bench slowly, sitting before her, voice hushed.

  “Aunt Peng… is it truly Siu Chen who was your lady?”

  “It is,” she confirmed, eyes searching his face anew. “Lady Siu Chen—beloved by the late Emperor Suzong.”

  Han Sen’s heart pounded.

  “And then… what happened to her?”

  Aunt Peng’s gaze grew distant.

  “There was unrest in the palace. Empress Zhang commanded that she be removed. I was sent with her. But midway upon the journey… my lady bade me leave, gave me gold for a quiet life, and told me to speak of her to no one.

  I returned to my village here in Tongzhou.”

  She smiled faintly, tears glistening.

  “I never knew what became of her after that.”

  Han Sen sat motionless.

  Torchlight danced across his face.

  The feast continued around them—laughter, music, clink of bowls.

  Yet for him, the world had narrowed to this moment.

  Han Sen questioned everything.

  Aunt Peng answered every query—voice soft, memory clear despite months passed.

  She spoke of palace days, of Siu Chen’s quiet kindness, of the journey south, of the moment her lady bade her go free with gold and silence.

  Moisture gathered in Han Sen’s eyes.

  He wept.

  Silent tears at first—then shoulders shaking as grief and relief warred within.

  He wept for the trials his mother had endured—alone, far from home, caught in imperial webs.

  He wept harder, hearing she had been hale and strong when last seen.

  Kim Tun approached, tray in hand, and stopped.

  He had never beheld such a sight.

  Han Sen—ever steadfast, ever composed, ever ready with gentle mirth—now wept openly beneath torchlight, face unhidden.

  The old man set the tray aside.

  Placed a quiet hand upon the youth’s shoulder.

  No words needed.

  The feast stretched late into the night—music softer now, laughter gentler.

  Yet Han Sen’s heart remained elsewhere.

  The following morning, before the sun fully crested Phoenix Mountain, Han Sen stood at the courtyard gate.

  Pack light upon his back.

  Kim Tun, Kim In, and the grandmother—all gathered to see him off.

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Han Sen said, bowing deeply. “For your kindness these past months. For roof and food, for family when I had none. But I must continue my search for my lost mother. Today I journey to Tuhe—not far, yet perhaps a step closer.”

  Kim Tun’s eyes shone.

  “Go then, Han Sen. May you find her soon.”

  He pressed a small purse into Han Sen’s hand—coins earned through honest service.

  The grandmother embraced him briefly, hands trembling.

  “Return someday, child.”

  Kim In grasped his sleeve.

  “Brother Han Sen… don’t forget Iin.”

  Her voice was small, yet fierce with sibling affection.

  Han Sen smiled—warm, genuine.

  “I shall return. I promise.”

  Warmth bloomed in his heart, touched by the simple, steadfast love of this household.

  He bowed once more.

  Then turned northward.

  The road to Tuhe was short.

  With Five Winds channeled into his legs, qi lifting him light between trees, he glided more than walked.

  Tuhe appeared sooner than expected—larger than Tongzhou, streets wider, markets busier.

  He wandered them all day—asking discreetly, describing a woman of surpassing beauty, kind eyes, gentle voice.

  No trace.

  Aunt Peng, palace-bound for decades, had known only the road toward Tongzhou.

  She could not say where Hong Cu had taken Siu Chen after parting.

  Only one name remained.

  Hong Cu.

  A eunuch.

  Palace servant.

  Han Sen stood at Tuhe’s northern gate as dusk fell.

  Chang’an lay far beyond—the heart of the empire, source of all threads.

  If his mother had once dwelt within those walls, the path must lead back there.

  To retrace her steps.

  To find the eunuch.

  To learn her fate.

  He drew one steady breath.

  Phoenix Mountain faded behind him.

  The dragon turned his face toward the capital.

  Core blazing quiet within.

  Heart burning brighter.

  The long road north began.

  Han Sen’s path north was etched with trials.

  He encountered brigands preying upon a merchant caravan—their hired guards helpless, blades trembling against ruthless numbers.

  Fortune turned when Han Sen appeared.

  Staff blurred.

  Thunder cracked.

  The wicked fell—wounded, bound, left for passing soldiers.

  Merchants wept with gratitude.

  He accepted only a bowl of hot tea and moved on.

  On another stretch, monstrous creatures burst from shadowed forest—scaled horrors descending upon border villages.

  Han Sen met them at the edge.

  Five Thunders roared.

  Beasts dissolved to dust.

  Han Sen collected the white Jade bowl from its lair.

  Villagers cheered—voices rising in waves.

  He lingered not.

  He sought no songs sung in his name, no feasts offered in thanks.

  Unlike those who craved the world’s praise, Han Sen departed swiftly—leaving joy to belong to the people alone.

  Whispers followed him.

  Tales spread along roads and rivers.

  Of the Thunderhand Fist—a true hero who struck down robbers, slew monsters, and aided the needy.

  Never asking reward.

  Never lingering for renown.

  Time flowed unbidden.

  Seasons turned.

  Han Sen neared his seventeenth year when the road finally brought him to the grand capital.

  Chang’an.

  The city sprawled vast beyond imagining—walls stretching farther than the eye could follow, gates towering like mountains, streets teeming with countless souls.

  Where to begin?

  He sought a humble eatery near the eastern gate—simple benches, steaming bowls of lamb noodle soup.

  He filled his belly.

  Listened.

  The more voices he heard, the more bewildered he grew.

  This metropolis was a tangled web—powerful clans, ancient martial schools, merchant guilds, eunuch factions, all intertwined yet separate.

  People lived amid a sea of faces, yet knew few.

  Each pursued their own affairs—heads down, eyes averted, isolated within invisible walls.

  Han Sen sat quietly at his table, soup cooling untouched.

  The capital swallowed men whole.

  How would he ever find one woman—and a eunuch—in such a place?

  Phoenix Mountain’s shadow lay far behind.

  The dragon had entered the empire’s heart.

  And the true search began.

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