The wind surged across the open steppe, no longer a whisper but a driving force: cold, dry, relentless. It rolled over the cracked earth and weathered stone like an unseen tide, stirring the tall yellowgrass into a whispering sea. The scent of iron and smoke clung faintly in the air, remnants of battles too old to name. Altan walked through that wind with silent purpose, each step measured and smooth, guided not by sight alone but by force of will. His qi, coiled deep within his center, hummed like a forgotten chord plucked from the strings of the world itself.
Chaghan followed close behind, boots scuffing the dry soil, his eyes caught between awe and unease. At twenty-five, he had seen his share of bloodshed. Once a footsoldier of a scattered tribe, now little more than a conscript among outlaws. With no elemental affinity, he had always been treated as lesser, a man cursed to walk without fire, without wind, without even earth to call his ally. His strength came from grit alone, but in this world shaped by qi and cultivation, grit was easily ignored.
They crested a low ridge. Before them stretched the jagged maw of Daran Gorge. Cliff walls rose like broken teeth from the land, hiding the last den of the Broken Fang. Once a proud confederation of horse clans, they had become feral and crude. Now, under a new leader, they scavenged and survived like wolves turned mongrel. Fires crackled within the gorge's shadow, voices laughed and shouted, blades clanged in drunken bravado. But even in the noise, something trembled. As if the land itself knew the moment was near.
Altan stopped. "They're here?"
Chaghan nodded. "Their leader is Khulan. She took control after the last war-chief fell to fever. Fought with spirit, but not honor. She's cunning, brutal, fast with a blade. The rest follow because they fear her."
"And you?" Altan asked.
Chaghan glanced down. "I follow because you spared me."
No reply came. Only movement. Altan stepped forward, his breath steadying. Within, his qi spiraled in slow rhythm, aligned to Wujin Yihe Dao—the Way of Eternal Harmony. It did not fight against the world, it moved within it. As he advanced, the flow of the wind, the heartbeat of the stone, even the flicker of fire ahead seemed to draw into alignment.
Two sentries waited at the gorge mouth, slouched and distracted. Hyena-boars snorted beside them, ears twitching. One of the men barked, "Oi! You lost? Speak up or bleed out!"
Altan said nothing. A blink later, the first man dropped, collapsing with a soft exhale, his breath stolen by a disruption in his internal flow. A thread of qi, cast forward like a needle of silence, had struck his second heart point.
The second drew steel, but his legs gave way, nerves unraveling before his weapon left its sheath. He slumped to the ground without even a gasp.
Chaghan watched in stunned silence. No blade. No sound. Just the wind and a man who had become part of it.
The camp widened inside the gorge. Tents cobbled from hides and rusted armor sagged beneath old banners. Bones and spears jutted from the earth in crude wards. Bandits lounged near a massive bonfire, unaware that death had already passed their threshold. At the fire's heart stood a throne of stone wrapped in wolf pelts. Upon it reclined Khulan.
She was tall, wiry, her skin marked with old blade cuts and ceremonial tattoos. A scar cut across her cheek like a second smile. She wore no armor, only furs and blackened leather, her twin sabers crossed behind her throne. Her eyes caught Altan's and narrowed.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Altan walked forward. "Your time ends here."
Laughter rippled through the gathered outlaws. It was cruel, echoing, hollow.
Khulan rose, her voice sharp as flint. "You want my camp? Then bleed for it. One-on-one. Old ways."
Altan stepped into the clearing. His robe fell from his shoulders. The branded sigils along his arms glowed faintly—marks of fire, earth, water, wind, spirit, and a sixth unknown: golden, shifting.
They formed a ring. Chaghan stood at its edge, silent.
Khulan drew her sabers. Her qi crackled with chaotic bursts, fast and violent—she cultivated the Path of Severed Sky, a jagged style of acceleration and shock. She moved like a hawk breaking from the clouds.
Altan exhaled. His qi sank, spiraling inward, his breath syncing to the fivefold cycle. As Khulan lunged, blades whistling, he flowed into Empty Reed Form, shifting with the wind, letting each strike pass through space that no longer held him. She struck again, again, her sabers flashing. Each time, she met nothing.
Altan stepped in. One palm, low and soft, pressed gently against her wrist—Silent Thread Touch. Her momentum buckled. Her foot caught stone. She staggered, and Altan stepped again, guiding her fall with a twist of the waist and a nudge of the breath.
She landed hard, rolling, eyes wild.
"You're playing," she spat.
Altan said nothing. He simply breathed, and the world breathed with him.
Khulan roared, unleashing her qi in a burst—Shattered Sky Descent, a high-speed frontal technique that shattered bone with its sonic edge.
Altan met her with Mountain Root Form. His feet sank into the earth, his palm rose into her path, and the collision met not resistance, but redirection. Her power fractured. Her body twisted. Her breath left her.
One more step. Altan touched her chest, just over the heart. Single Drop Strike. Her qi unraveled. Her knees hit stone.
The fire dimmed.
The camp was silent.
Khulan looked up, panting. Her sabers lay out of reach. She blinked through the haze of defeat. "Why?"
Altan answered, "Because you still remember who you were."
He turned to the camp.
"You followed her because she was the strongest. But strength without direction is just violence. You are not scavengers. You are not ghosts. You are steppe-born."
He pointed to the banners. "You lost your names. Take them back. Burn the rest."
He raised a hand. Chaghan stepped forward.
"From this night," Altan said, "you are no longer Broken Fang. You are the Silent Gale."
Smoke rose behind them. Tents fell. Bones burned. Men knelt. Chaghan watched it all and said, "By steppe law… they're yours."
Altan turned from the fire, his eyes already fixed on a farther storm.
Behind him, a wind began to rise.