Morning fog clung to the dirt streets of Jinlian City like a clingy relative who'd overstayed their welcome. Lin Feng crouched behind a stack of empty rice barrels, his stomach growling loud enough to risk giving away his position. Three years as an orphan had taught him many things, chief among them that hunger was both the best motivator and the worst betrayer.

"Quiet down," he whispered to his midsection. "You'll get your turn to speak after we've stolen—er, liberated—breakfast."

At eight years old, Lin Feng had the wiry frame of someone who'd never known a full meal and the sharp eyes of someone who'd seen too much. Since the plague had claimed his parents, the streets had become his reluctant home and thievery his unwanted profession.

Today's target: Old Man Zhu's steamed bun cart, which had the dual advantages of delicious merchandise and a proprietor whose eyesight was failing faster than Imperial tax collectors could spot hidden wealth.

Lin Feng watched the steam rise from the buns, carrying an aroma that seemed almost deliberately cruel in its perfection. His mouth watered as he calculated the distance, timing his approach with the rhythm of the morning market.

"Three merchants arguing over silk prices to the left," he muttered to himself, "one official collecting bribes to the right, and Old Zhu himself looking the other way to yell at those children. Perfect."

He darted forward, his movements precise despite his trembling hands. Two more steps and breakfast would be secured. One more step and—

A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder with the decisive grip of someone who'd just caught a prized fish.

"Stealing from the elderly? That's a touch unimaginative, little rat."

Lin Feng froze, mentally calculating the likelihood of wriggling free (minimal) versus the punishment for attempted theft (considerable). He slowly turned to face his captor, preparing his best "innocent orphan" expression—the one that occasionally earned him sympathy rather than a beating.

The man before him was unlike the typical city guards who usually caught him. Instead of the clean-shaven face and pressed uniform of authority, this man sported a wild, patchy beard that looked like it had been trimmed with a broken knife by someone juggling during an earthquake. His clothes were a haphazard collection of mismatched fabrics that somehow managed to look deliberately assembled rather than desperately collected.

Most striking, however, were his eyes—sharp and knowing, completely at odds with his disheveled appearance.

"Only an amateur thief gets caught in broad daylight," the strange man continued, releasing his grip. "Though I suppose being an amateur at eight years old is somewhat forgivable."

"Nine," Lin Feng lied automatically, adding a year as street children often did to seem more capable.

"Eight," the man corrected with absolute certainty. "The plague that orphaned you swept through the eastern quarter three years ago. You have the look of a five-year-old plus three years of hunger."

Lin Feng's eyes widened. "Are you a fortune teller? Because if you are, your outfit needs work. Fortune tellers usually aim for 'mysterious', not 'slept in a pig pen.'"

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise before a booming laugh escaped him. "Spirit! Good! Much better than cowering. I am Lao Wei of the Beggars' Sect, and you, little rat, have been operating in my territory without paying proper respects."

Lin Feng's stomach tightened. Even street urchins knew of the Beggars' Sect—an organization whispered about in the shadows of every alley. Some claimed they were merely organized criminals; others insisted they possessed martial secrets that made them more dangerous than any armed guard.

"I don't have anything to give," Lin Feng said, straightening his posture to appear taller. "Unless you'd like some air. I have an abundance of that."

"Humor in the face of fear," Lao Wei noted with approval. "A useful trait. Almost as useful as knowing when a territory belongs to someone else."

Lin Feng shrugged. "The way I see it, if you're not actively using something—like an unattended bun cart when you're hungry—it's fair game."

"Philosophical theft! Even better," Lao Wei chuckled. "Tell me, little philosopher-thief, have you ever considered a more... structured approach to survival?"

"If by 'structured' you mean prison, I've successfully avoided that particular opportunity."

Lao Wei's eyes narrowed with interest. "The Beggars' Sect always needs new blood. Those who survive our training often find themselves with more than just scraps to eat."

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"And those who don't survive?" Lin Feng asked, eyebrow raised.

"End up exactly where they started—or worse," Lao Wei admitted with casual honesty. "But you're already gambling your life daily for much smaller stakes."

Lin Feng considered this. The man wasn't wrong. Just last week, he'd nearly lost three fingers to a merchant's knife over half a bruised apple. "What would I need to do?"

"First, prove you're worth the rice you'd consume." Lao Wei pointed to a nearby rooftop. "Catch me before the count of thirty, and I'll consider your potential."

Before Lin Feng could respond, the beggar was moving with startling agility, scaling a nearby wall as if gravity were merely a polite suggestion rather than a natural law.

Lin Feng hesitated only a moment. "Well," he muttered to his empty stomach, "we weren't getting those buns anyway."

He sprinted toward the building, quickly assessing his route. An awning here, a window ledge there, a series of uneven bricks that might as well have been a ladder to someone desperate enough. His first jump barely allowed his fingers to grasp the edge of the awning, his malnourished arms straining as he pulled himself up.

"Ten... eleven..." Lao Wei's count drifted down from above.

"You started counting before explaining the rules," Lin Feng grunted as he reached for the window ledge. "Very sporting of you."

"Fifteen... sixteen..." came the impassive reply.

Each movement became a negotiation between determination and physical limitation. Lin Feng hauled himself up inch by painful inch, using handholds that would've been invisible to anyone who hadn't spent years finding the narrowest gaps to hide in.

"Twenty-two... twenty-three..."

"I hope," Lin Feng wheezed as he neared the top, "your counting is as bad as your fashion sense."

"Twenty-seven... twenty-eight..."

With a final desperate lunge that felt like it might tear his arms from their sockets, Lin Feng's hands grasped the edge of the roof. His muscles screamed in protest as he pulled his body up with a strength born of pure stubbornness.

"Twenty-nine..."

He rolled onto the rooftop, collapsing at Lao Wei's feet just as "thirty" left the man's lips. For several moments, the only sound was Lin Feng's ragged breathing.

"Did I make it?" he finally gasped.

"You arrived precisely at thirty," Lao Wei said, crouching beside him. "Neither success nor failure—appropriate for one who walks the edge between life and death daily."

"Wonderful," Lin Feng panted. "Glad I nearly killed myself for ambiguity."

Lao Wei's weather-beaten face cracked into something resembling a smile. "You climb well for one so hungry. But climbing is merely the beginning of the skills you'll need. The path of cultivation begins with understanding that the body is merely a vessel. What matters is the strength of one's core—both physical and spiritual."

"Is this the part where you tell me about magical powers?" Lin Feng asked, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "Because right now, the magical power to make food appear would be most appreciated."

"Cynicism from one so young," Lao Wei remarked. "The streets age children like harsh sun ages leather." From within his tattered robes, he produced a steamed bun, perfectly rounded and still warm. He placed it before Lin Feng with ceremonial gravity. "This is not charity. This is investment."

Lin Feng stared at the bun, saliva flooding his mouth, but didn't move to take it. "What do you want in return? Because while I'm admittedly desperate, there are certain things I won't do."

Lao Wei's expression shifted from amused to solemn. "Your oath. Swear to follow the Eighteen Principles of our sect. Obey your elders without question. Share what you gain with those who share your path. Never reveal our techniques to outsiders. And most importantly, remember that true strength lies not in domination of others, but in mastery of oneself."

"That's five things, not eighteen," Lin Feng pointed out. "Are the other thirteen equally vague and demanding?"

"They will be revealed as you earn them," Lao Wei replied, unperturbed by the boy's skepticism. "Some would consider it an honor to be recruited rather than having to beg for admission."

Lin Feng looked from the man to the bun and back again. On one hand, joining a mysterious sect with a beggar as its representative seemed questionable at best. On the other hand, his current career path as a half-starved thief offered limited growth opportunities.

"If I swear this oath," he said slowly, "and later decide your sect is not to my liking, what happens?"

"Those who leave the Beggars' Sect do so in one of two ways," Lao Wei said, all humor gone from his voice. "As masters who have completed their training, or as corpses who have failed it. There is no middle path."

"You really need to work on your recruitment speech," Lin Feng muttered. He stared at the bun again, its aroma a more persuasive argument than any words. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. I swear to your principles, both the five you've mentioned and the thirteen you're mysteriously withholding."

"Then eat, initiate of the Vagrant Cloud Path," Lao Wei proclaimed with surprising formality. "Tomorrow, your true hunger begins."

Lin Feng grabbed the bun and bit into it, the simple flavors exploding across his palate like a festival of sensations. "I've been truly hungry for three years," he said between eager bites. "If you can show me something beyond that, I'll be genuinely impressed."

"There are hungers you have yet to imagine," Lao Wei said cryptically, "and satisfactions beyond mere fullness."

"Very profound," Lin Feng nodded, his mouth full. "Do all your sayings come with dramatic pauses, or is that optional?"

Lao Wei's laughter rolled across the rooftop once more. "Irreverence will either be beaten out of you or become your greatest strength. I look forward to discovering which."

As Lin Feng finished the bun, he felt something stir within him—not just the relief of sustenance, but a flicker of something he'd nearly forgotten: hope. Whether this strange path led to power or peril remained to be seen, but for the first time in years, tomorrow seemed worth waiting for.

"So," he asked, brushing crumbs from his rags, "does the Beggars' Sect provide new uniforms, or do I need to maintain this 'authentic street urchin' appearance for credibility?"

"You'll earn your rags just like everything else," Lao Wei replied, rising to his feet. "Come. There's much to learn, and daylight to waste."

As they descended from the rooftop, Lin Feng cast one last glance at Old Man Zhu's bun cart. "Farewell, almost-breakfast," he whispered. "Perhaps in my next life, we'll meet under better circumstances."

What Lin Feng couldn't possibly know was that his circumstances were about to change in ways no street orphan could imagine—and that the path opening before him would lead far beyond the narrow alleys of Jinlian City, into legends that would one day bear his name.