27 Years Ago
Henan Province, China
Morning mist clung to the stone steps of the Shaolin Temple, drifting through pine trees that had witnessed centuries of silence and discipline. The temple bells had already rung. The courtyard still carried the echo of synchronized breaths and striking palms.
A teenage boy in traditional Shaolin attire stood at the edge of the training hall.
Zhāng Yǔzé.
His robe was simple. His posture perfect.
He bowed deeply.
"Master, you called me?"
The old master sat on the wooden platform, spine straight despite his age. His beard fell neatly against his chest. His eyes were calm, but there was something heavy in them today.
"Yǔzé," he began slowly, "my disciple. You have committed your childhood here. You have trained harder than many who were born into comfort. Your dedication surpasses those outsiders who come here to learn our art and later mock it before modern technology."
The master paused.
"You are not an outsider to us."
