Just like every other fictional novel, Zhao Zheng was given his second chance. The story will start again, but this time the character will be different!
Zhao Zheng was sinking into darkness when he saw a doting bright light shining down on his face. Upon opening his eyes, all he could see was the sun and the cold smell of blood. He looked to his right side and saw his comrades, his home destroyed, people dead. The first thing that came into his mind was Old Man Gwan. He looked to his left and saw the old man even as he died, he retained the same smile that said he still believed in the goodness of the world.
Zhao felt an uncontrolled rage surge from his body. Why?
He tried to stand. He wanted to ask the old man why he smiled, but his body wouldn't give in. The pain was unbearable. The first thought that anchored him was that he needed to stand up. So Zhao, while lying down, closed his eyes, trying to gather a little Qi, even if it was very small.
Since he was very weak, Zhao could not even learn the primary way of Wudang cultivation. They called it the Breath of the World harnessing energy (Qi) from every life force around you and converting it into the core of the Yin and Yang, the balance of the universe. Zhao had struggled to even gather a little Qi, and all he had gathered had been destroyed. Even with this, he still believed there was a way. As long as he was alive, that was enough proof that the impossible existed.
He tried to gather. And subconsciously, Zhao's body started gathering Qi from every single thing around him even the energy of the dead.
Zhao, who felt it, was surprised by this. He stopped after getting enough Qi to stand. Without trying to figure out what happened, Zhao picked up a broken shield and started preparing a burial for his comrades. There was no time to think about his new skill. The Righteous Alliance would have heard of the attack it would drag a lot of attention if he was seen here.
So Zhao buried every single person. By night time, he was in front of Old Man Gwan's grave. He sat beside it. Then he remembered Old Man Gwan fixing a broken vase, no matter how many times it broke. He had asked Gwan why he chose to keep fixing it. Gwan had told him what kintsugi was.
"You do not hide the breaks," Gwan had explained, his hands carefully fitting the pieces together. "You mend them with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The cracks become rivers of gold, part of the history. You embrace the damage. The broken object becomes more beautiful, more valuable, for having been broken and repaired."
And now Zhao understood he was kintsugithe broken vessel of the world. But his gold would not be compassion or mercy. His gold would be survival. His gold would be the will to continue, even when everything was broken.
He slept beside the grave, and by the time he woke, it was morning. He could hear the sound of horses coming from the mountains. They were close.
Zhao entered the temple. Gwan's quarters were to the left. He had once talked of the East as the free world a place of chaotic ports, uncharted islands, and no great sects. A place where a man could be lost, or remade. Zhao took a map from Gwan's simple shelf, then went straight to the waterfall.
He washed his face, the icy water shocking him fully awake. Then he tore a piece of his clothing and tied it around his eyes, covering the crimson irises that had marked him as demon, as scum, as other.
He needed to leave. Zhao was starting his first journey into a world that might never accept him.
But acceptance no longer mattered. He was not seeking a place in their world. He was seeking a way to exist in spite of it. The broken vessel began to move, guided not by sight, but by a new awarenessthe awareness of energy, of scars, of the hidden fractures in all things.
What is a human but a being who breaks, and must choose how to mend? Zhao Zheng had chosen. Not with gold, but with resolve. Not to hide his scars, but to let them guide him. His humanity was no longer a question of birth or acceptance. It was a practice. A path.