Chapter 1: The Young Dragon

 Another day came to light, and with it, came the sun illuminating the four corners of the Great Empire of China.

In one of the tallest mountains on its whole territory, the sun also illuminated a particular courtyard, inside an enormous fortress that surrounded the whole mountain. This was the home of the strongest of all Wulin clans, the House of The Flying Dragons of the Dragon Mountain. This particular courtyard was also home of one of its six elders, Elder Ling.

The courtyard was extremely big and elegant, with room for almost a hundred people. In its center, stood an elevated arena, where five youngsters stood. Around the arena, there were many other people, their age ranging from their teens to young adults. They all wore the same red and golden robes, with different degrees of embroideries.

Four of the five men on the arena slowly circled the last of them, in combat stances and with tense faces. The one standing in the center, in comparison, seemed extremely relaxed, with a slight smile on his lips and a confident look in his eyes. He was in combat stance but his seemed far less threatening than the one used by the others. Suddenly, everything was still.

Then the wind blew, leaves floated from the ground and the stillness of the combat was violently broken. With a yell and an explosion of strength, the biggest of the squad of four attacked his opponent. His hands curled as claws and his knees doubled back as he flew toward his enemy. Before he could reach the sole fighter, one of his allies also attacked simultaneously, dashing low and sweeping his legs towards the man's ankles.

The fast and fierce pincer attack should grievously wound a normal man. The claw technique coupled with the man's muscle was enough to tear boiled leather, while the fast sweeping kick looked powerful enough to break bones. But the one who faced it did so without even twitching. The slashing claws were diverted midair as the man snaked his hands between them and pulled down the attacker's wrists. Using the momentum of the attack coupled with his own jump, the sole fighter switched places with his attacker and sent his burly enemy flying towards the incoming attack from his back.

Both the attackers stumbled over each other and sprawled on the ground. Before the defender could catch a breath, however, the other two opponents also attacked. They moved together and their stance - a variation of the Golden Ape Style, judging by the raised elbows and fists and their bared chests - indicated they intended to use grappling and immobilization techniques to subdue their foe. An obvious move when having superior numbers.

But the lone warrior would have none of it. Faced with the new threat, he immediately changed stances. Before any of the two new opponents could realize what he was doing or what was his new stance, he took the opportunity of surprise and advanced with inhuman speed. His move was strange, and not many of the present recognized it before its completion. Those that did, bulged their eyes out with surprise. He rushed at one of the grapplers, jumped, and curled his knees midair. As he reached the ground, his arms punched the ground back as his legs extended with a double kick. The Golden Ape Style was good for defending attacks but wasn't nearly as good for dodging them. Before the grappler could even blink, his abs were kicked with the force of a raging bull. In fact, that was precisely the style the man had changed to: The Style of The Raging Bull.

The man was sent flying and fell off the arena, groaning on the ground outside. The other Golden Ape fighter was stunned by astonishment.

The move used was the hardest of the set of moves the style had. One had to focus years of sole training in the style to achieve that. And everyone there knew that the young man fighting against them wasn't a Raging Bull Martial Artist. In fact, he was something far, far more terrifying.

Before the Golden Ape fighter could rearrange his thoughts though, the raging bull came for him too. The fighter immediately protected his guts, fearing to suffer the same fate of his friend. But to his surprise, no double kick came. Instead, as his opponent reached the ground, instead of punching it and using it as a support for a full body attack, he used it as a pivot, to sweep his legs at the grappler's ankles with the speed of the wind. Wind God Style, the kicking technique previously used against him in the battle.

The ape-like man immediately lost his ground as he rotated in the air and fell sideways in the ground. He tried to grab the leg in a wrestling technique of the Golden Ape, but it had immediately retreated after sweeping him down. It was replaced for claw-like fingers that came for his throat: a Style of The Fierce Tiger technique. The fingers raised his head by the throat with the sharpness of iron pincers and even caused blood to flow in the places caught by the nails. The grappler immediately saw another claw coming for his face and yelled at the top of his lungs...

 "I give... Aaaarrrrggg!" His words were replaced by a moan of extreme pain as his eyes were hacked by the lone fighter's fingers

He closed his eyes and curled himself against the ground, cowering from any more damage.

But the fighter was already up and gone, facing toward the other two enemies left. They had just managed to detangle themselves from each other and paled as they saw the ruthless actions of their opponent. The one that had used the Wind God Style was trembling as he whispered...

 "I surrender... " As he backed off with a terrified face and jumped from the stage without even looking at his ally.

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 The last fighter was the burliest of them all, and had an heroic appearence. He had sharp eyebrows and close cropped hair. There were even a few scars on his face to fully compose his dangerous demeanor. To couple his appearence, he was the one that also used The Fierce Tiger Style, one the styles know for its extreme agressiveness and ruthlessness. Right now, he was staring at his opponent with furious defiance. Comparing his aura with that of the lone warrior was akin to putting together a fiery inferno with a deepless pound of stillness.

The lone warrior had black long and silky hair reaching his waist, his young beardless face was beautiful as that of a lady, with straight nose and arcing eyebrows. His build was medium sized and only his eyes and smile denounced his true colors: eyes twikling with liquid arrogance and a smile that proclaimed his superiority to his peers. By now, even if no one there knew who he was, they would have know what he was: a peerless genius.

 "Junior Brother Zhang, you should know better... " The genius said with a laugh. "There was no other outcome from challenging me, no matter with how many helpers. A Dragon can't be defeated by numbers. Your friends there on the ground know it now, and so should you. Be wise like that one, and be gone." He said pointing his finger to the fighter that had surrendered and stood outside the arena, kneeling with his head down in shame.

 His speech only made Tian Zhang more furious. He spat on the ground and sneered back. Junior brother? He was far older than the boy, barely an adult with his nineteen years of life. Tian Zhang lived and trained in the House of The Flying Dragons since his birth, almost three decades past. He was a core disciple for almost ten years and recognized as one of the strongest fighters of the clan.

 "Dragon? You are not that good Long. No matter what style you train in or what techniques you have, you will never be anything more than an annoying brat. Never forget that you are only alive because of the mercy of our elders and that the Long on your name is just a pretty label to comfort the abandoned bastard you are..!"

 The words spoken by Tian Zhang left the whole audience there gasping for air. Everyone knew that the number one genius of the House of The Flying Dragons was an abandoned child left at their gates as a baby, but no one ever voiced it. He was taken by the Clan Master himself, and given the surname of the House coupled with the name of its founder: General Tian Long, The Heavenly Dragon of China, a warrior of unmatched fierceness famous for centuries for his feats in the Wars of Unification of The Great Empire of China.

The abandoned child talents were displayed already in his first years of life when he mastered the basics before his eight years of age and moved to learn the styles of the House before his tenth year: The Golden Ape, The Fierce Tiger, The Wind God, The Flowing River and many more. In his teens, he was already stronger than all of the outer disciples, and he managed to become a core disciple before reaching fifteen when most of those were at least thirty years old.

At that point, the old Clan Master had chosen him to be one the sole two inheritors of the House's martial arts. As he grew, less and less people in the House could match him. For a few years, he didn't even train with his peers anymore. The only ones who faced him were the clan Deacons, inside closed doors. Now, at nineteen, no one but them knew of the highs his martial arts had reached, or how many styles he had mastered.

But together with his geniality, another trait Tian Long had also become known for throughout his years in The House was his extreme arrogance and pride. With no foes able to match him, he was not one to be humble about it. He considered himself above others and had no intention of hiding it. It made him disliked by most, but so what? What could they say? Wasn't he, indeed, a dragon among men?

 To hear another man say those words Tian Zhang had just said, exposing the only indignity in his life, everyone could predict what they would see now. Elder Liang, who watched in a raised dais by the side, was already troubled by the violence used by Tian Long before. When he heard those words, he knew he would have to stop the challenge, or Tian Zhang would suffer great loss. What he did not expect was the extent of the fury erupted from Tian Long or the immensity of his true achievements in The Martial Path.

 Before Elder Liang could even say a word, it was as if a heavy blanket was thrown all over the crowd. A supernatural pressure downed on everyone present, including Tian Zhang. He immediately regretted uttering the words he had just said, even though he believed them. But it was too late. There was no pill for regret. 

Many did not understand what was happening, and those who did, could not believe it. What could that pressure be, if not the agglomeration of Heavenly Qi? And if there was Qi present at the scene, who else could be using it but those fighting? But the problem laid precisely there. Those fighting where youngsters. Genius disciples, but young men nevertheless.

 One has to know that controlling Qi represents the peak of the Martial Path. The styles were created by powerful martial experts who could find ways to weave small amounts of environment Qi in their techniques. Those training in it could subconsciously use those techniques to tread the Martial Path and achieve inhuman feats. To be able to break through those techniques and control your own Qi was the mark of reaching the peak. The only thing above it was the Path Of Immortals, but those were only legends. Those to pursue it were all old fogies who isolated themselves inside mountain caves to never be seen again.

 A martial artist could train from his childhood to his hundredth year at most. At that age, even though their bodies could look young, fit and strong as that of a young man, their mind could not endure for much longer. Considering those hundred years of training, a dedicated and perseverant martial artist would spend on average forty of his years mastering the styles before starting considering to seek the control of Qi. Then he would have to ponder for decades on the nuances of the heavenly laws, the universe, and life. The Heavenly Dao. Only after one reached a certain understanding of the Dao, would one start to feel the presence of Qi, and eventually, be able to control it. That usually would happen to a talented martial artist in his sixties. One would already be considered a genius to do so in his fifties.

 But here it was an unprecedented event. Tian Long, the young dragon of the House of The Flying Dragons was agglomerating Qi before his twenties. And doing so innately, as his fury rose. His arrogant expression changed from disdain to utter scorn, like that of someone who sees a filthy cockroach daring to sully his image in public. His stance shifted and it was as if the heavens and the wind shifted with it. The blood flow of the public and the lifting and downing of the leafs of the trees synchronized with his own breathing. He could feel the connection with the world: he was part of it, like a force of nature. As such things go, anything that faced him would give way. It was only natural.

And then it came. The Flying Dragon Style, first move. Spiraling Scales.