Feng-Lung breathed deep the flaring fires of the Dragonpyre Hearth.

“Very good,” his Master told him. “Again.”

The Disciple closed his eyes and tensed up his stomach muscles, feeling the air travel through them and with it his Qi. He could feel it building in his gut, in the core of his being, and he swept his feet wide and opened his arms to direct the flow of energy down to his fists.

“Good,” Master Longhua whispered. “Now, hold it.”

Feng-Lung’s brow tensed, sweat pooling just above his shaven eyebrows, gently running down the dragon tattoo that adorned his forehead.

Hold…he counseled himself. Hold the Qi within you. Feel the essence of the Dao enter your body and elevate your senses. Feel your muscles quicken as it pours through them, and let your veins be filled with fire.

Fire.

“Good,” Master Longhua said again. “Now, follow the flow of Qi. Let it run where it must.”

Feng-Lung obeyed the words of his Master, divorcing his mind from his body and letting his mind commune with the Qi. It was said that those Cultivators who had mastered the Body Tempering Stage could sense the Qi in all living things, from the lowliest twin-tailed Marshmouse to the greatest Stix bison with its three heads and stomachs. It was said that they could even tell where spirits would manifest in the land. But such feats were nothing but idle fancies to young Feng-Lung, who had only barely entered the Second Rank of Body Tempering last spring.

Feng-Lung felt the essence of the Dao flow freely within him, and he knit his brows in concentration as he closed off his Chakras and let the power pool at the base of his open hands.

“Focus,” Longhua said again within the Hearth, where all except the flickering candles were quiet as a crypt.

Master Longhua often spoke of how their Sect valued not only the fire born of dragons but the spiritual attributes associated with that same element. Ambition, determination, passion, desire – these things were the Anima of the Eternal Dragon Sect – the characteristics Disciples were most expected to express. Some of their most famed Cultivators – those who had existed in the Qing Dynasty before the Sundering, had displayed all these characteristics in their purest form. Some of the Internalized Ego Grade could even divorce their souls from their bodies entirely, living as pure, sentient flame. Technique and temperament went hand in hand with the teachings of each Sect.

Feng-Lung, however, had been slow to learn. It had been his desire alone that had spurned him on these past six years, and desire alone which compelled him to continue his training even against the odds. His Anima Cores were fewer than most of the other Disciples – being measured at a mere 83 compared to the average of 90 and above – but still, this had not deterred him. As a child he had only ever woken to the dark skies of the Wastes above him, and it was nothing but pure bliss to be able to set them alight with a flame borne from the energy of the Dao. It felt like he was breathing life back into a world many had already given up for dead.

And so, closing off the rest of his Chakras, he breathed again, felt the flow of Qi within him slowly build up and surge, turning first to hot steam, then to a billowing, raging bonfire beneath his heart.

“Now,” Longhua whispered from behind him. “Let it fly.”

Feng opened his eyes the instant he heard his Master’s words, and with one single, fluid movement of his arms, he threw a punch that released all the Qi energy from his body.

It took only an instant for the burning carmine flower of holy fire to erupt from his closed fist, sailing free through the air before slamming into the Master’s waiting hand.

His fist closed round the firebolt while Feng-Lung looked at his firm, smoking hand.

“A fair strike,” Longhua said, opening his hand and showing his Disciple the small threads of crimson that were slowly sinking into the groves of his palm. “You show much better control than before. Your fire burns brighter every day.”

Feng-Lung bowed low, keeping his orange robe tightly wrapped to his chest where his heart was throbbing. Every time he performed the Dragon’s Talon, he felt how close to death he was – how, with one simple lapse of concentration, the trapped Qi could erupt beneath his ribcage and sear away every bone in his body. It was not unheard of for Longhua’s failed students to suffer self-immolation in the early days of their training.

Their bodies were not buried on the monastery grounds. There was no need, Longhua said, to honor impotent ash.

“You will begin practicing the Second Tier Earth Grade techniques of the Dragon tomorrow morning,” the Master said as he patted Feng on the shoulder. “Meditate this evening upon the descending sun, and let your head hit your pillow when the moon rises. When the light of new morning hits your forehead, you shall rise as a Fourth Level Corporeal Temperer.”

Feng tensed up at his Master’s praise, drawing a look of curiosity from Longhua.

“You do not enjoy hearing your Master congratulate you on your progress?” he asked, running his fingers down his beard.

“N-no, I mean, yes Master,” Feng replied hurriedly. “I am forever grateful for your guidance. It is just…” he stammered, and then felt the edge of Longhua’s palm strike his shoulder in a blow that nearly cut off his windpipe.

“Come, Feng,” he chuckled. “I have told you never to conceal your thoughts from me. In time, you know I shall pull them from you. But I am not a dentist, my Disciple. Would you treat me like one?”

“No, Master! Of course no-“

“Then tell me what troubles the mind of my most promising new pupil.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Feng tried to hold his Master’s gaze, wondering how he could look in those dark, piercing eyes, shrewd beyond the wiliest cat Feng had chased in his youth, and tell their bearer what he needed to say.

But his Master had him now. There was no escaping his all-seeing gaze.

“The Dragon’s Tooth,” he began, tentatively. “The Spiral Dervish, the Coiling Tail Strike, the Whirling Slash…I have learned these techniques and know them now as an extension of my own body – the vessel for the Qi of the Eternal Dao.”

Master Longhua nodded, urging his Disciple to continue.

“But…does it always feel so…volatile?” he asked. “With every move I make, every strike I perform, I feel the power of the flame that roars within me and I…I feel…”

“You feel afraid.”

Feng-Lung bowed his head in shame. Now he had disrespected not only his Master, but himself, in the hallowed halls of their Sect, no less.

“Good.”

Feng’s eyes shot open. His brain could not process that his Master had said the word.

“Master?”

“Do your talons clog your ears, Feng-Lung?” Longhua laughed. “I said ‘good’.”

“I do not understand, Master.”

“Feng-Lung,” Longhua began, revealing his old, ashen hands from beneath his shimmering cloak. “Look at the hands of your Master. See where the dusty remains of a thousand flames have seeped into my palm. Look where the threads of living death have traveled through my fingers and blackened their tips. Do you think I have never felt fear?”

Feng bowed his head again even if his mind struggled with his Master’s admission. That the old dragon could actually feel afraid of anything seemed an impossibility as detached from reality as the Cog that dwelled outside. What need the dragon fear of the world beneath its feet?

Then again, Feng-Lung had never ventured outside the bounds of Ramor-Tai or the five villages at the foot of the mountain. He had only heard tales of the Wasteland and of what stalked around the ruins of the Old Dynasty. Perhaps there was more truth to them than even his Master would allow him to know.

“My Disciple,” Longhua said. “Think of fire.”

Longhua indicated a burning brazier to their right, and with some subtle movements of his fingertips he drew a thread of the pliant flame in a spiral around his hand.

“Fire is wild,” he continued as his student looked on. “It can only be harnessed, never controlled. The Qi allows us to give it form, but our bodies are at its mercy. He with the strongest Animus can project the greatest flame, but he puts his own body at risk in the process of giving it life.”

The crimson threads of flame danced between Longhua’s aged fingers like harmless ribbons, even though Feng-Lung could tell that, with little more than a twitch of his hand, those same ribbons could burn him to a crisp.

“To hold power within your body,” Longhua said. “To wield flame not as a weapon or a tool, but as an extension of yourself, that is where fear lies. As it should.”

Longhua let the flame return to its brazier with a swift, fluid flick of his forefinger.

“It means you are not stupid, my Disciple.”

Feng-Lung placed his hand on his chest, honoring his Master’s praise, this time, with a deep bow. Yet something still troubled him beyond his own trepidation regarding his techniques.

“Master,” he said tentatively. “Why do you not admit the Cog to the Sect?”

A long, unbroken silence followed, where Feng-Lung instantly chastised himself for asking the question. Feng knew that, when his Master said nothing, it was more an indication of righteous anger than when he rebuked his Disciples physically.

“He has a flame that burns within him,” Feng-Lung explained. “I have seen it.”

“Have you?” Longhua replied. “You have sensed the Qi in him? You have seen the Universal Dao travel through his steel limbs?”

Feng-Lung hesitated. “I – I have not, Ma-“

“Then why do you ask questions you know the answer to?”

Feng-Lung looked up at his Master then, facing his knitted brows and twisted features. There was anger there, yes, but there was something else too. He could feel it in the tiny fluctuations of the Master’s Qi flow.

“He can fight, Master,” he said, pressing his case despite the odds stacked against him. “He subdued Fai-Deng of the Waiting Tiger without issue. This you saw with your own eyes.”

“A screaming tiger is not a threat to his prey,” Longhua scoffed, already beginning to turn away. “He kills himself and goes starving.”

“I could not have done this thing,” Feng-Lung responded with passion. “Master, I only wish to know why you will not give him a –“

“A chance?” Longhua roared, fanning the braziers in the hearth with his rage so that their flames flew to the ceiling and bathed the Master in the lambent red of the underworld. “Listen well, Feng-Lung – a Master does not take chances on evil when he can see it plainly before his eyes! What you see within the machine is not born of the spirit. It is a thing of this realm – this barren earth we call home – and that is all it shall ever be.”

Feng-Lung watched his Master’s face take on the appearance of a warrior spirit of the Wasteland – something that was ready to face one of the Old Gods themselves if he had to. He saw the spirit of the Cultivators of the old Dynasty – those who had ruled before the Sundering and who, Feng-Lung knew, all the current Masters were descended from.

“I do not understand, Master!” Feng-Lung asked. “If he wanted to destroy us, why does he not simply attack? Why does he come alone?”

Feng-Lung waited for the sting of his Master’s fire to sear his face and scar him for his insolence. But, when the strike never came, he couldn’t help but press on:

“He waits for you out there, Master. He waits with the patience of one who would obey your every command. He desires no power, no glory, and no material gain. All he has is a question that he must answer. Does prophet Ai-Lee not say that knowledge is the most noble of all pursuits?”

Feng was then shocked to see the anger in his Master’s eyes suddenly abate, like a burning tree falling into stagnant water. Longhua sighed, deeply, exhaling a gust of smoke in the process, and looked upon his Disciple with weary, clouded eyes.

“You are too young to remember the Old Dynasty,” he said. “Back when Gods danced among us, and this world belonged to men and men alone. There were many Cultivators then, and even more Cogs, and they served Emperor Qing in a Dynasty that lasted for a thousand summers. But when the Sundering came about, the machine-men did not stand beside us.”

Feng saw his Master look away, immersed in memories the young Disciple could only imagine. Even then, he could not conceive of the horrors of that event – the Sundering. The day when the light of the world died away, when the Gods were cast down to battle upon the earth and left nothing but ruin in their wake.

“We barely survive to carry on the legacy of the first Cultivators,” Longhua continued, staring up at the frescos of the coiling Eternal Dragon with sorrow. “It is the legacy of man. Not of machine. A man has the guiding spirit of the Dao within him. A man is molded by his circumstances. A man is chosen by what remains of the heavens. A creature composed of steel and lights has none of the aspects of man. He is clockwork and purpose – and that purpose is always to conquer. He cannot seek the Dao, for the Dao does not see him.”

Feng-Lung was touched by his Master’s words, looking on as the old man began to ascend the steps to the courtyard and retire to his chambers. It was not what he said that affected him so, but the way in which he uttered the words

“Enough,” he said. “The sun is descending.”

But young Feng-Lung’s curiosity was matched only by his brashness.

“Master,” he said. “Are you afraid of him?”

The young Disciple watched the aged Master of the Eternal Dragon stiffen for a moment before his shoulders sagged and fell, and when his Master did not even turn back to address him, Feng wished he had stopped his mouth before it ran away from him.

“That will be all, Feng-Lung.”