Dawn crept over the mountains. Mist curled between the pines, and dew clung to the dojo's worn steps like scattered pearls.
Master Yan sat in silence, the night's storm still echoing in his veins. His heart beat steadily now—no longer the erratic, fragile drum it had been yesterday. Beneath that rhythm pulsed the faint, impossible echo: the second heartbeat.
He pressed his hand to his chest.
It wasn't a dream.
He inhaled. Slowly, deliberately, he ran the pattern again: nine counts in, hold, release. The thread of warmth obeyed, flowing down past the heart, spiraling through his core, rising up his spine like a gentle tide. The world around him seemed to sharpen—the drip of water from the eaves, the distant chatter of sparrows, even the faint stirring of ants beneath the floorboards.
When the cycle closed, he exhaled, and the dojo seemed brighter for it.
For fifty years he had believed that Ki was the limit of men. But this… this was not Ki. Ki burned, strained, corroded. This energy soothed. It repaired. His chest no longer burned with constant ache; the weakness that had haunted him since birth felt… less.
I've found the real thing.
He rose, slower than he once did, but steadier. His joints popped as he assumed a stance: horse-riding, back straight, fists raised. Ki had always given weight to his strikes, but now, when he clenched his fist, the faint pulse behind his heart responded. Power rippled outward, subtle but undeniable.
He punched once. The air cracked. Dust leapt from the floorboards as though the dojo itself had exhaled.
Master Yan froze, staring at his hand. That strike had carried no Ki. It had been something purer. Stronger.
A shiver ran through him.
If the martial world discovered this… sects would fight to seize it. Kings would kill to own it. The heavens themselves might not permit it.
No. Not yet.
He relaxed his stance, calming his breath. The Unfading Pulse Sutra was his alone—for now. A secret seed that must be nurtured quietly until it could no longer be uprooted.
From the lower path, footsteps approached. A young disciple's voice called up, hesitant:
"Master? Are you… well? They said you were unwell last night."
Yan opened the door. The boy stood there, clutching a basket of firewood, eyes wide with worry.
"I am fine," Yan said, voice calm, steady. More steady than it had been in years. He reached out, took a piece of wood from the basket, and split it cleanly in two with his bare hand. The cut was smooth, almost polished. The boy gasped.
Master Yan simply set the halves aside. "Tell the others I will resume lessons tomorrow."
"Yes, Master!" The boy bowed and hurried down the steps.
Yan closed the door.
He stood alone in the silence again, pressing his palm once more to his chest, to the pulse that refused to fade.
"Immortality…" he whispered. The word felt dangerous, forbidden, yet sweet on his tongue.
His lips curved into the faintest smile. For the first time in decades, Master Yan was not counting how many days he had left.
He was wondering how many centuries awaited him.