October's golden hues blazed like wildfire under the scorching sun.

The afternoon light, fierce as flames, devoured the sky and earth alike. The highway stretched empty, save for the ceaseless chirping of cicadas in the trees lining the road—their shrill noise amplifying the suffocating heat.

Inside a long-distance bus trundling along the national highway toward Guangcheng, Wu Yang sat alone in the back row by the window, his mood as oppressive and restless as the weather outside.

Five years. Five grueling years of blood and iron had transformed the once-soft scholar into a man of steel. Yet no matter how hardened he’d become, the thought of what lay ahead still softened even the toughest resolve…

"Master, would you like a cola?" girl in a skimpy outfit held up a bottle of ice-cold soda, offering it politely to a middle-aged man seated across the aisle.

The so-called "master" looked no more than forty, dressed in a loose, pristine white Tang suit. One hand toyed with two glossy black domino tiles, the other cradled an exquisite teapot, from which he sipped occasionally—a perfect image of a transcendent hermit.

Hearing the girl’s offer, he shot Wu Yang a disdainful glance before replying with a chuckle, "Such kindness, young lady. But as cultivators of the Way, we seek inner refinement. While cola may be a delight in your eyes, how could it compare to the refreshing power of my gongfu tea?"

His eyes flicked coldly toward Wu Yang as he spoke.

This bastard—dressed in some ragged, dust-colored camo fatigues, probably some backwater hick who crawled out of the mountains. Earlier, he’d dared to refuse my request to switch seats just so I could sit next to this pretty girl. The insolence!

The master’s act was flawless—ten out of ten for style. And the girl, damn her, seemed to eat it up, her admiration only growing. Not just her—many passengers were now crowding around, calling him "Master" with reverence. Men begged for self-defense techniques, women sought advice on fending off harassment, and elderly travelers peppered him with questions about longevity.

And the master? A true virtuoso. No matter the question—man, woman, young, old—he answered effortlessly, his words flowing like a waterfall, leaving listeners in awe, half-convinced they should kneel and call him "Sifu."

Wu Yang watched the spectacle with mild amusement.

It wasn’t that he disdained traditional martial arts—their thousands of years of history in China proved their worth. No, his issue was with this "master."

For starters, the man’s bloated gut strained against his Tang suit, making a mockery of his supposed "martial prowess."

He’d rather spend the time thinking about what came next after arriving in the city than listen to this clown’s nonsense.

"Hey, you—yeah, you, don’t look away!"

Wu Yang, lost in thought, turned at the sound of an authoritative voice.

The "master," still playing the part of a sage, pointed at Wu Yang’s head with a smile, while the surrounding onlookers buzzed with excitement, their faces flushed.

"Me?" Wu Yang grinned sheepishly. "What’s up, Master? You talking to me?"

"Indeed, young man. I wonder if you’d have the courage to demonstrate the Tai Chi killing technique—‘White Snake Strikes’—with me? Don’t worry, no internal power involved. Just a friendly display. If you cooperate well, I’ll even waive your tuition at my Qitian Martial Arts School for three months!"

The master chuckled, stroking his beard like a benevolent elder.

The crowd erupted in envy. A few burly men practically leaped up, shouting, "Master, that kid’s skinny as a rail—barely any meat on him. If he won’t do it, let me take his place. I don’t need free lessons, just teach me a few real moves!"

"Me too, me too!"

The frenzy threatened to spiral out of control until the master raised a hand and barked, "Disciples of the martial path keep their word. Since fate has chosen him, no more arguing. Well, young man? What do you say?"

The master’s heart bled inwardly. Of all the passengers, this weakling was the easiest target—the perfect fool to bully, especially after earlier refusing to yield his seat.

Wu Yang hesitated, not because he was afraid, but because he didn’t want to hurt the guy. "Ahem… wouldn’t it be better to avoid unnecessary conflict? This is a civilized society, after all. Fighting’s illegal, and what if something goes wrong…?"

"Nonsense, are you even a man?" Wu Yang’s words were cut off by the girl, who jumped up to scold him. Great, even a little brat looks down on me.

But Wu Yang had thick skin. For the next few minutes, no matter how the master provoked him or how the crowd mocked him, he stood firm, citing vague excuses like "You never know where a punch might land—safety first."

Eventually, the master snapped, his voice dripping with disappointment. "Do you know what you’re missing, kid? With your scrawny frame, you’re destined to be a pushover your whole life. But with my technique, even six knife-wielding thugs wouldn’t dare touch you!"

SCREECH— sudden brake jolted the bus to a halt. Before anyone could react, a deafening BANG shook the vehicle as the doors were kicked open.

Five or six thugs—wearing sleeveless vests, ripped jeans, and bare torsos covered in tattoos—stormed in, waving machetes, steel pipes, and iron chains like props from a gangster movie. Their eyes glinted with malice as they scanned the passengers.

"Men to the left, women to the right, and you weirdos in the middle. Move it, and move it fast. Don’t worry—we only want money, not blood."

The leader, a bald man with a tumor-like growth on his head, slammed his machete against the bus wall, the metallic clang echoing like a death knell. The bus fell into a stunned silence.

The driver cowered behind the wheel, trembling. The passengers, frozen in terror, instinctively turned to look at the "master"—who stood frozen in the aisle, his aura of invincibility utterly shattered.

The atmosphere was thick with dread.