"The forms change. You change. One day, if you survive long enough, you might touch the Cosmic Palm." —The Master to Wen Tu
The sky above Qoruul had shifted into pale gold, clouds drifting slow across the heavens like forgotten scrolls of wind. The mountain air hung crisp and still, untouched by sparring cries or the distant chime of ceremonial bells. No trial had been posted. No storm drums called the disciples forth. This was something quieter. Something older. A silent challenge left by those who needed no witness.
At the center of the empty courtyard stood a single matchstick, upright and unassuming, embedded into the worn grain of an old wooden post. It looked too simple. Too fragile. But it waited all the same, like an unlit wick before a storm.
Kael stood before it, frowning, eyes narrowed in concentration. He stared at the small sliver of wood as though trying to decipher some divine riddle carved into its surface. His breath fogged faintly in the cold morning light.
Beside him stood Bruga, his massive frame unmoving, twin-headed war-axe resting across his back. His arms were folded, his face calm. He didn't speak at first. He simply watched Kael, patient and silent as stone.
"You're looking at it wrong," Bruga finally said, his voice low and steady.
Kael didn't look away from the post. "It's a stick. A target."
Bruga exhaled through his nose, a quiet snort. "That's your first mistake. It's not a target. It's a mirror."
Kael turned slightly, puzzled. "A mirror?"
Bruga gestured with a nod. "It doesn't care how fast you are, how sharp your qi is, or how many men you've killed in silence. It only reflects what's true."
From the high temple steps, a voice called out in dry amusement. "He's doing the speech again!"
Wen Tu lounged against a pillar, clearly entertained. Kael glanced up, frowning. "Speech?"
Bruga didn't react to the interruption. He knelt beside the post, broad hands brushing gently across its weathered grain. Resting atop the beam, so light they barely disturbed the frost, were eight tiny slivers of matchstick. Cleanly cut. Unbroken.
"Eight," Kael breathed. He blinked. "It looked like one…"
"That was the Master's first lesson," Bruga said, voice softer now, almost reverent. "No audience. No ceremony. Just a stick."
Kael lowered his voice. "He did this?"
Bruga nodded slowly. "Same courtyard. Same light. I laughed when he showed me. 'You want me to cut a matchstick with a war axe?' I said."
"And?" Kael asked.
Bruga's eyes remained fixed on the post. "He said, 'Not just cut it. Split it eight times. Without force. Without splinters.'"
Kael shook his head. "But that's impossible."
Bruga lifted a hand. "He didn't argue. He showed." A pause. "Once, with bare hands. Eightfold Flow. Each palm awakens a layer of breath and intent."
The weight of his words sank through the group like mist settling into stone. Wen Tu straightened, the grin gone from his face, his expression suddenly serious.
"Eightfold isn't the limit."
Kael looked at him. "What do you mean?"
Wen Tu's eyes drifted slightly, gaze turned inward. "The Master taught me the inner form. Root of Still Storm. Stack eight palms—earth, air, flow, shutter, pulse, crack, taut, and still. But that's only one gate." He hesitated. "I... struck a sixteenth fold once. Felt like the air cracked open. A doorway behind doorways."
Ryoku stared. "Sixteenth?"
Wen Tu shrugged. "Didn't tell the Master. But he would've told me the same thing. 'First fold first,' he says. 'Ego comes later.'"
Kael's gaze dropped to the axe in his hands. "So Eightfold is just the beginning."
"There's always more," Wen Tu murmured. "Some Wisewords speak of the Thousand Palm Path. Some say the forms dissolve past counting, where breath is form and form is breath."
Bruga crossed his arms. "Still, you must master the fold before chasing the series."
Kael nodded slowly. "Then I've barely begun."
Wen Tu's gaze shifted again, more distant now. "Speaking of beginnings…"
The others followed his eyes toward the far edge of the training yard, where stone gave way to black rock, and there, half-hidden in shadow, stood a sealed iron door. Its surface was etched with jagged runes, glowing faintly with dormant qi. Two Stormguards of Iron Hand rank stood before it, unmoving as statues.
Ryoku rose, brushing dust from his knees. His voice lowered. "That's the Chamber."
He stepped forward slowly. "The Master doesn't say much about it. But Stormguards enter one at a time, some with nothing but a spark, and they return burning like a hearth flame in the darkest winter."
Kael's jaw clenched slightly. "When will he send us?"
Bruga answered, voice even and firm. "When your dominion is unbroken. When your center doesn't shift with each breath. When the breath is the blade."
Ryoku added, almost whispering, "When form and path merge. Breath becomes strike."
They all turned toward the iron door again. Toward its waiting stillness. The runes glowed faintly. The guardians didn't stir.
Kael spoke quietly. "I want that."
Wen Tu gave him a tight smile. "The path is long, friend."
Kael's gaze remained steady. "Then let me walk it."
Bruga nodded once. "Fold by fold."
And so they stood, not just before a matchstick driven into wood, but before something greater. A threshold not of stone or seal, but of readiness. The wind around them paused, like a breath caught in waiting.
Far above, on the temple's rooftop, the Master watched in silence. His robe stirred in the high wind, and one hand caught the breeze gently. The sigil on his back shimmered faintly with storm-qi.
The first sliver had been split.
The Eightfold Path lay behind them now.
And the Thousand waited ahead.