Ebony opened his eyes, a dull ache throbbing in his head. He was in a small, serene room, bathed in a warm, golden light. The walls were adorned with intricate paintings depicting serene landscapes and meditating monks. The air was thick with the sweet scent of incense, and the soft glow of candles cast dancing shadows on the walls.

A simple wooden table stood by the window, holding a bowl of water and a cloth. Beside it, a small shrine caught his eye. A serene portrait of a meditating monk, It was a black portrait in which the person himself was made out of gold. His face, illuminated by a gentle smile, was the centerpiece. Tiny, flickering candles surrounded the portrait, casting a warm glow on the serene face. The shrine was adorned with intricate carvings and gilded accents, creating a sense of peace and tranquility.

As Ebony gazed at the shrine, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. The room, with its warm hues of red, gold, and turquoise, exuded an aura of serenity. It was a stark contrast to the chaos and violence he had recently experienced. For the first time in days, he felt a sense of peace.

He saw his broken lute, bits and pieces scattered on the table. He wanted to reach out and grab it, but his body ached. He couldn't move another muscle and just laid back down.

Ebony sat motionless in bed, trying to process everything. His thoughts drifted to his 900 pearl coins with Thomas. "I wonder if he still has it," he mused, "and where he stored it. I could really use it to pay for this..." He trailed off, realizing he didn't even know where he was.

He took in the unfamiliar surroundings, the serene paintings, the intricate shrine. It was clearly a place of healing, but where? And how did he get here? Questions swirled in his mind, unanswered and unsettling.

The screams startled Ebony, his bruises aching anew. He sat frozen, heart pounding, as the fierce cries and sounds of combat continued outside.

"What was that?" Ebony wondered, his heart still pounding. A coughing fit suddenly seized him, and he tasted the gritty remnants of the red powder. It was still in his system, and he continued to cough, the strange substance clinging stubbornly to his throat.

Hearing the coughs, a man rushed into the room. He saw Ebony struggling and patted his back with concern. As Ebony continued coughing, more of the glittery red powder escaped his lips, scattering across the bed and floor. It was clear that he still had a lot of the substance in his system.

When the coughing subsided, Ebony turned to the man who had helped him. He recognized the monk from the ball, the one who had stood beside the well-dressed man named Leonard. "Oh, thank you," Ebony rasped, his voice still hoarse. "Have we met before?" He focused on the man's face. "Yeah, yeah, I've seen you. You were at the ball, right next to that... that..."

"Yeah, the one at the ball," the monk finished Ebony's sentence, a gentle smile on his face. "The one who... well, shot you down when you tried to talk to Lord Claymore. That was me."

"Were you the one who bandaged

me?" Ebony asked, his voice still raspy.

"Yes, I was," the monk confirmed.

"What's your name?" Ebony inquired.

"My name is Goto," the monk replied.

Ebony hesitated, then asked Goto, "Do you know how to fix strings?" He gestured towards his broken lute.

Goto shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I've never played an instrument before."

Ebony sighed, disappointment washing over him. "Well, at least it was a good try."

Goto smiled warmly. "Oh, by the way, you're very lucky your friends were able to find you in time. Amilco and Mei saved you. You had some nasty scratches, but I patched you up and gave you some herbal medicine."

Ebony's eyes widened in surprise and gratitude. "They found me?" Tears welled up in his eyes as the realization of his situation hit him. He had been so alone, so lost, and they had come to his rescue.

He thought back to the night of the ball, to the kindness and camaraderie they had shared. He had felt a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose. And now, they had saved his life.

"I owe them so much," he murmured, his voice filled with emotion. "I hope they're alright."

Goto nodded understandingly. "They are. They're resting now. They were quite worried about you."

Ebony's heart swelled with gratitude. He had found true friends in Amilco and Mei, and he would never forget their kindness.

Ebony wiped away his tears, but another violent yell from outside startled him, his bruises aching in protest.

Goto chuckled, seeing Ebony's reaction. "Don't mind that," he said reassuringly. "That's just the Shaolin practicing." He paused, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Is this your first time hearing them?"

Ebony shook his head. "No, I've seen you guys perform in the Town Square and around town. You were amazing. I just... never expected it to be so loud.

Ebony was surprised to hear Goto laugh again.

"You have to be loud and proud as a Shaolin monk," Goto explained, his smile widening. "Being loud is part of the technique." He winked playfully.

"Why do you yell so much? I'm just curious," Ebony asked.

Goto nodded. "It's called a 'kiai.' It's more than just a yell. It's a way to focus our energy, to intimidate our opponents, and to project our power. It's a vital part of our martial arts practice and deeply ingrained in Shaolin culture."

"It's also believed—" Goto began, then stopped abruptly. "Well, perhaps that's a story for another time." He clearly wanted to share more but held himself back.

Ebony felt a pang of disappointment. Another Shaolin secret kept from him. He wasn't surprised, but he couldn't help but wish he knew more about their world.

Ebony winced, attempting to rise. "Just trying to move a bit," he mumbled.

Goto noticed his struggle. "Hang on," he said, "Let me try something." He retrieved a pot filled with a pungent herbal paste. Carefully, he scooped a dollop and applied it to Ebony's bruises. The cool ointment brought immediate relief, easing the throbbing pain.

Ebony sighed in gratitude. "That feels much better," he admitted, surprised by the effectiveness of the simple remedy.

Goto smiled. "Shaolin herbs have many uses," he explained. "We learn to harness their power for healing and well-being."

Ebony, cautious not to disturb the herbal paste, slowly maneuvered himself out of bed. He winced with each movement, his bruises still tender. He waddled out of the room, determined to explore his surroundings.

Goto followed, ready to steady Ebony if he faltered.

They entered a courtyard bustling with activity. Monks, young and old, practiced forms, their movements fluid and precise. Some sparred with wooden staffs, the air filled with the rhythmic thwack of wood on wood. Others honed their skills on stone dummies, their strikes echoing across the courtyard.

The architecture was a blend of simple elegance and sturdy functionality. Pagodas with sweeping eaves stood beside training halls with open walls, allowing the fresh air to circulate. Stone lanterns lined the pathways, casting a soft glow on the meticulously raked gravel.

Ebony and Goto stood silently, observing the disciplined display of strength and skill. The atmosphere was charged with energy, a testament to the dedication and focus of the Shaolin monks.

Ebony spotted Amilco among a group of forty teenaged monks. He called out to his friend, but Amilco, though he heard the shout, couldn't acknowledge him. His focus remained fixed on his trainer.

Ebony shouted again, louder this time. The other young monks were momentarily distracted, glancing around but quickly returning their attention to their training.

They were disciplined, unwavering in their focus.

Goto gently silenced Ebony. "You mustn't disturb them during training," he explained.

"They must remain focused, their minds clear. He'll come to you as soon as he's finished."

Ebony, curious, asked, "How long will that take?" Goto Smiled Warmly. "For training like this, you can never know."

Ebony, with nothing to do but watch, stood for a while. Eventually, Goto offered him a seat. He settled down, resigned to waiting for Amilco's training to finish.

Ebony watched the monks train, captivated by their fluid movements and precise strikes. Their forms flowed seamlessly, their bodies adapting to each other's movements like water. Some practiced with weapons - staffs, swords, and spears - their forms a mesmerizing dance of skill and precision.

This was different from the performances he'd seen in the Town Square. It was a longer, more intricate display of their abilities, and Ebony was mesmerized. He sat in silent observation, feeling a sense of awe and inspiration.

He saw a parallel between their practice and his own musical journey. It took dedication and constant practice to reach such a level of mastery, whether in martial arts or music.

Ebony thought back to his own practice sessions with his lute, hidden in the bushes before the ball. He had always thought of music as a form of power, a way to move people's hearts and minds. Now, he saw a similar power in the monks' movements, a power born of discipline and dedication.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

◇

Five hours later, Ebony jolted awake. He had fallen asleep in the chair, the rhythmic movements of the monks lulling him into a peaceful slumber. Amilco stood before him, a wide grin on his face. Ebony, disoriented, realized he had slept through the entire training session. Ebony realized he must have only watched for half an hour before falling asleep.

Amilco began, "So, when you..." but then hesitated, catching Goto's warning glance. He saw the shame and disappointment etched on Ebony's face and knew he had to choose his words carefully. Before he could address it, a commanding voice cut through the courtyard's tranquility.

"Hold on there, Amilco."

They turned to see a tall, bald Asian man in a gray robe. He was one of Amilco's masters, the one leading the training session.

Goto and Amilco bowed respectfully to their master, who regarded them with a stoic gaze. His eyes then fell upon Ebony, sitting in the chair, his face a patchwork of bruises and cuts.

The master's expression softened slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "May we talk somewhere else?" the master suggested. Without a word, they followed him as he turned and walked towards his quarters. Amilco and Goto helped Ebony up, and the three of them trailed behind their master.

They entered the tea room, a spacious room showcasing the rich diversity of their fictional Asia. Delicate porcelain vases from Tenkai stood beside intricately carved wooden screens from Shenzhou. Silk tapestries with vibrant patterns, woven in the style of Rangrado, adorned the walls. Bronze statues, reminiscent of Ayutthayan craftsmanship, stood guard in the corners. The room was a testament to the harmonious blend of Eastern aesthetics and traditions from across their world.

They settled in the master's quarters, Ebony's chair carefully placed among the Asian artifacts.

"I am Jian," the master introduced himself, his voice steady and firm. He addressed Ebony with a stoic demeanor. "You cannot stay here."

Amilco and Goto sat with legs crossed, heads bowed, eyes closed, listening respectfully to their master's words.

Jian turned to Amilco and Goto. "It is good that you brought this boy back to life," he acknowledged, "but you should know better than to bring an outsider to the monastery."

He looked back at Ebony, a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "At least until your wounds heal," he conceded, "but I'm afraid you cannot stay here long term."

Jian continued, his voice resonating with wisdom and authority. "The Shaolin monastery is a sanctuary, a place of peace and spiritual development. It is not meant for outsiders. Our ways are not easily understood, and our practices require a level of dedication and discipline that few outside our order possess."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over his students. "We cannot risk the sanctity of our traditions, nor can we jeopardize the safety of those who dwell within these walls again. The world outside is filled with dangers, and we must remain vigilant to protect our sacred ground."

Jian's voice softened slightly. "Your circumstances are unfortunate, young man," he said to Ebony, "and we will not turn away someone in need. But understand, this is not a place where you can remain indefinitely. Once your wounds have healed, you must find your own shelter."

When Jian finished, Goto and Amilco both raised their hands.

"Yes, Amilco?" Jian acknowledged.

Amilco lowered his hand. "Master, I understand this place is sacred. But why do we distribute flyers if we don't want outsiders here? And with all due respect, Ebony deserves better hospitality than we're offering.”

Jian nodded. "You raise a valid point. The flyers serve a purpose. While we value our seclusion, we also rely on the generosity of those who appreciate our traditions. Their donations maintain this monastery.

We offer demonstrations as a gesture of gratitude and to inspire others, but we must be cautious about who we invite in. Not all respect the sanctity of this place."

Jian sighed. "Amilco, we cannot risk harboring those we do not know. Ebony may be your friend, but his loyalties and intentions remain uncertain. Remember the recent theft of our sacred idol? We cannot risk another intrusion. Our security must be paramount."

Ebony interjected, "Master Jian, I'm no thief. I understand you're protective of your traditions, but I have nowhere to go. I've been banished, robbed, and beaten.

Throwing me out is like condemning me to death. I won't steal or disrespect your monastery. I just need a place to recover." He paused, then added, "If you could deal with those bandits and protect the people of Iomud, that would be my final wish. And I hope you get your idol back."

The three monks exchanged uneasy glances. The stolen idol was a sensitive topic, not meant for outsiders' ears.

Amilco spoke up, "Master, it was actually thanks to Ebony that we got our idol back."

Amilco's words hung in the air. He looked at his master, a mix of apprehension and defiance in his eyes. He knew he had revealed a secret, but he felt Ebony deserved to know the truth.

"It's true, Master," Amilco continued, his voice gaining confidence. "Ebony had that red powder, the tracking powder. It allowed us to follow the bandits back to their hideout. We recovered the idol and retrieved everything they stole, including Ebony's earnings."

"I understand your concern for the monastery's safety, Master," Amilco pressed on, "but Ebony is not a threat. He's a victim of those bandits, and he helped us. He deserves our protection and gratitude."

Jian turned to Amilco. "Tell me everything."

Amilco explained the events:

◇

Amilco and Mei knelt beside Ebony, gently tending to his wounds. His face was bruised, his clothes torn, and his beloved lute lay in pieces. Amilco's heart ached with guilt. "I let you down, man," he whispered, though Ebony was unconscious and couldn't hear him.

Mei examined the shattered lute, noting the few remaining coins scattered on the ground. This wasn't the work of ordinary thugs, she realized. These were skilled and agile thieves.

Mei's mind raced. "Where did that girl disappear to? And how did she escape?" The guards' incompetence was alarming. "Maybe that's why we were hired," she mused, "to do what the guards clearly can't." She glanced around the deserted alleyway. "Not a single guard in sight. No wonder this place is overrun with bandits." Anger flared within her. This wasn't just about a stolen idol anymore; it was about protecting innocent people.

"We can't just leave him here," Amilco declared, his voice filled with concern. "He'll die from these injuries."

Mei stopped him, her expression conflicted. "You know we can't take him to the monastery."

"The medical centers are closed," Amilco countered, desperation creeping into his voice. "It's the only option."

"He's still a stranger," Mei reminded him. "Even if we do take him, they'll just kick him out once he's healed. He won't be able to handle our secrecy."

She looked down at Ebony, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes.

Despite her reservations, she couldn't deny the young man's desperate situation. If she knew him better, perhaps she would feel differently, but for now, caution prevailed.

Mei's reluctance stemmed from a desire to protect the monastery, not from any personal dislike of Ebony. But Amilco's guilt wouldn't let him abandon the bard. He was starting to piece things together, suspecting that the woman from the fairgrounds and Ebony's attackers were working together. He felt responsible for not seeing it sooner.

As Amilco bandaged Ebony, he noticed the red powder smeared on his lips and clothes. "How did he get this all over him?" he wondered aloud. Then it hit him. "Oh no, did he actually drink it?" He slapped his forehead in disbelief. "I told him it was a potion, but that you don't drink it."

Mei gave him an exasperated look. "Why would you lie about that? Of course, he's going to drink it if you call it a potion!"

Amilco shrugged defensively. "I didn't know what else to call it! He was asking questions, and I'm not good at lying."

A thought struck both Amilco and Mei simultaneously. If Ebony had the powder on his clothes, then perhaps...

Amilco finished bandaging Ebony and hoisted him onto his back.

Mei, meanwhile, focused her gaze on the alleyway. She closed her eyes, then opened them. They glowed with a yellow hue, and she could see a faint trail of red powder, shimmering with a misty incense-like glow. It pointed towards the bandits' hideout.

Amilco, mimicking Mei, closed his eyes and opened them. His eyes now held the same yellow glow, and he too saw the trail. They exchanged a determined look. They had found their lead.

They stared at the trail, a silent understanding passing between them. They would find the bandits, recover the stolen idol, and amilco will bring justice for his friend.

Mitchell was furious. He hadn't been able to rob anyone and had only served as a lookout. Even if he had tried, he likely would have been caught and beaten by those monks again. And now, he'd have to endure Surter's endless complaints about the night's failures.

Priscilla seethed with embarrassment. She'd been caught, and those monks had seen her at the ball, compromising her anonymity. Being manhandled by teenagers was humiliating, especially for a seasoned thief in her late twenties. At least she had bribed those guards, ensuring her freedom.

Surter was equally disappointed. He'd hoped to rob wealthy nobles but ended up brawling with a bard. They'd only managed to pull off one minor robbery. Most of their targets were protected by those blasted monks. He wasn't skilled at stealth like Priscilla, so targeting the wealthy was out of the question for him. Even Priscilla hadn't been able to get her hands on any real valuables.

"Count it up," Surter grumbled, tossing a small pile of loot onto the table.

They tallied their measly earnings: a few pouches of coins, some cheap jewelry, and a grand total of 189 pearl coins. It was a pathetic haul, even less than what they had before robbing the bard. They'd lost most of their takings during the scuffle.

"This is ridiculous!" Surter raged, slamming his fist on the table. "We barely made anything!"

Mitchell and Priscilla exchanged glum looks. They couldn't argue with that. The night had been a complete failure.

"You beat up that bard, and it didn't make me feel any better," Surter grumbled. "I wish I'd killed him." He glared at Mitchell.

"And you," Surter growled at Priscilla, "showing your face at the Fairgrounds? That didn't help! I told you not to do anything stupid!" He paused, his voice laced with frustration. "You're lucky those guards were on our side! But now you have to pay them off, costing us even more of our earnings, you stupid girl!" He glared at her, his anger palpable.

Priscilla leaned against the wall, fuming silently. She wasn't going to dignify Surter's childish outburst with a response. It wasn't her fault those monks had interfered. She'd done her best.

Mitchell, meanwhile, bore the brunt of Surter's tirade. He nodded along, feigning agreement, but inwardly, he was seething. Shut up, shut up, shut up, he thought, his hand itching to connect with Surter's jaw. He'd had enough of the whining.

Surter continued his rant, pacing back and forth. "We should have planned this better," he fumed, running a hand through his hair. "We should have..." He trailed off, unable to come up with a solution.

Finally, he threw his hands up in exasperation and slumped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. "Shiiiiiit," he curses. "Good god."

Surter sat up, a glint of malice in his eyes. "Alright," he declared, "I've had enough of this. It's time for a new plan." He leaned forward, his voice low and menacing. "We're going to rob that monastery."

Mitchell and Priscilla stared at him in surprise. "The monastery?" Mitchell echoed, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Of course it's wise," Surter snapped. "It's all those monks' fault we failed tonight. They interfered with our every move, protecting those rich fools." He slammed his fist on the table. "We're going to take back what's rightfully ours, and then some."

He turned to Priscilla. "I need you to scout it out. Find their weaknesses, their routines, their valuables. And don't get caught this time."

Priscilla nodded, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Leave it to me," she purred. "I'll find a way."

"But not now," Surter cautioned. "We'll wait until we're fully healed. Two weeks, maybe less." He cracked his knuckles, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Then, we'll strike."

"Get some rest," Surter told the others, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "We'll need it for what's coming."

Priscilla, already plotting her reconnaissance mission, chuckled and headed to her room. She pulled out a worn leather-bound book filled with her meticulous sketches and cartographic notes. Before any raid, she meticulously mapped out the area, marking potential entry points, guard positions, and valuable targets.

Mitchell, relieved to finally escape Surter's tirade, retreated to his he lived in another house across from Surter house where he and the rest of his crew slept.

"I'm pissed," he muttered under his breath. "How's he going to take his anger out on me when his dumb ass was the reason I couldn't do anything? I'm not getting more bruises because of him." He called Surter every name under the sun as he opened the door.

Mitchell called Surter every name under the sun as he opened the door to his quarters. A look of shock instantly replaced his anger. Standing in the doorway was a Shaolin monk. Before Mitchell could react, the monk unleashed a powerful kick, sending him flying across the room. He crashed through a glass window before collapsing onto the floor.

The commotion alerted Surter, who rushed to see what was happening.

He froze in the doorway, his eyes widening in disbelief. Standing there, staff in hand, was another monk. But what shocked him even more was the sight beyond the doorway: an army of at least forty-five warrior monks, ready for battle. And among them were Amilco and Mei.

The scene cut to Amilco, Mei, and Goto standing before the bandits' hideout.

"This is the place," Goto confirmed, a gleam in his eye. "Thanks for leading me here."

A mischievous grin spread across his face. "I've been dying to give these bandits a taste of their own medicine."

With a fierce battle cry, Goto charged into the hideout, followed closely by Amilco, Mei, and the rest of the Shaolin monks.

The monks stormed the hideout, kicking down doors and unleashing a fury of attacks on the surprised bandits. Still half-asleep, the bandits were no match for the disciplined monks.

Fists, staffs, and blades flew, leaving the bandits bruised, battered, and completely overwhelmed.

Even those who had attacked Amilco and Mei earlier were shown no mercy. The monks' strikes were precise and powerful, amplifying the bandits' existing injuries.

The hideout was filled with the sounds of chaos and the cries of defeated bandits.

Priscilla, sensing the danger, managed to hide in a small cubby that the monks hadn't yet reached. She held her breath, hoping to remain undiscovered amidst the chaos.

Surter, adrenaline surging, found himself facing a group of five monks. He threw a wild punch, but it was easily intercepted, met with a swift kick to his face. He stumbled back, disoriented.

He charged forward, tackling two monks to the ground. He rained down blows, but they quickly recovered, countering with a barrage of punches and kicks. Surter staggered, his vision blurring.

The monks pressed their advantage, their movements a blur of disciplined force. They struck with precision, each blow landing with bone-jarring impact. Surter, overwhelmed, crumpled to the ground, defeated. The monks had delivered a beating twice as brutal as the one he had inflicted on Ebony.

Priscilla, seizing her chance, made a break for her usual escape route – a window leading to the rooftops. But Amilco was waiting for her. He clung to the ledge above the window, anticipating her escape. As she clambered onto the roof, he swung down, his legs connecting with her chest, sending her sprawling back into the room.

The wind knocked out of her, Priscilla landed hard, tears stinging her eyes. Amilco dropped down into the room, his face a mask of fury. "My friend couldn't even open his eyes after you and your thugs beat him," he snarled. "I bet it felt good to rob defenseless people, didn't it bitch?"

Priscilla, gasping for breath, reached for her dagger and lunged. Amilco, alert, easily dodged the blade. They stood in a tense standoff, Priscilla's dagger poised, Amilco ready to counter. The air crackled with anticipation.

With Priscilla disarmed, Amilco seized the opportunity. He unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks, sending her crashing into a nearby drawer. The drawer burst open, spilling a mountain of stolen goods: gold coins, jewelry, and other valuables. Among the loot, Amilco spotted Ebony's bag containing the 550 pearl coins. And there it was, the stolen idol, nestled among the treasures.

Amilco surveyed the scattered loot, a wave of anger washing over him. He picked up Ebony's bag, relieved to find the coins still inside. Then, he carefully retrieved the idol – a golden monk sitting peacefully, a serene god of inner peace.

He turned to Priscilla, his voice laced with disgust. "As I expected, it was you who broke into the monastery," he accused. "You're a skilled thief, but that's as far as your talents go."

Just as Priscilla tried to rise, Mei appeared behind her, delivering a swift punch to her face. Priscilla crumpled back to the ground, defeated.

Meanwhile, outside the hideout, a chaotic battle raged. A dozen bandits, armed with knives and makeshift weapons, charged down the hill, hoping to overwhelm the monks. But the Shaolin were ready.

The monks met the bandits' aggression with disciplined ferocity. For every attempted stab or slash, the monks countered with swift strikes and calculated blocks. Their staffs whirled, their swords flashed, and their fists connected with bone-jarring force. The bandits were no match for the monks' superior skill and training.

The night air was filled with the sounds of clashing steel, pained cries, and the monks' battle cries. Blood stained the ground as the fight raged on. A few monks fell in the fierce struggle, but the bandits suffered far greater losses. By the time the dust settled, the ground was littered with the bodies of dozens of defeated bandits. The Shaolin had emerged victorious.