The Iron Fist Sect did not bother with subtlety.
Three days after the messenger bird, as if obeying the deadline written in broken jade, they arrived in a line of red and black cutting through the morning mist. From the cliff path above the main trail, Chen Yuan watched them approach, arms folded, the breeze tugging at his worn robe.
"Count them," he said quietly.
Beside him, Li An narrowed his eyes. "Eight in the front," he murmured. "Heavier steps. Armor?"
"Likely."
"Four behind in looser formation. Their steps don't match. Disciples or servants."
"And the one in the middle?" Chen Yuan asked.
Li An's gaze sharpened. "He walks like the world should move out of his way."
"Good." Chen Yuan nodded. "That'll be their representative. Remember his silhouette. People like that hate being ignored."
Below, Zhang Wei and Lin Mei waited at the base of the inner path, just beyond where the mountain's formations—weak, but present—began. Both wore the plain gray of their patched sect robes, the new sprout sigil stitched on their chests in green thread.
"You sure about this, Master?" Zhang Wei had asked earlier, fists clenched. "Letting them come up instead of meeting them below?"
"Absolutely," Chen Yuan had replied. "This is *our* home. People who want to threaten you don't get to choose the battlefield. Besides, the hike will do their egos good."
Now, as the red-and-black group drew close, Chen Yuan let himself be seen. It was a calculated reveal—an old man on a rock, not looming, not cowering, simply there.
The man in the center looked up, eyes narrowing. He was in his thirties, Chen Yuan guessed, with close-cropped hair and a thin scar running along his jaw. His aura—if you could call it that without sounding ridiculous—pressed outward like hot metal.
*Core disciple at least,* Chen Yuan thought. *Maybe an elder in charge of logistics. The kind who thinks people are just heavier crates.*
"Sect Master of the Restart Sect," the man called, voice carrying easily. "I am Iron Fist Elder Lu Jian. We come to retrieve what belongs to our sect."
He said it like a formality, already certain of the outcome.
Chen Yuan descended from his vantage slowly, making no effort to hurry. Let them wait. Let them feel the weight of the climb and the silence of the mountain.
By the time he reached Zhang Wei and Lin Mei, Elder Lu stood at the edge of the inner path, his entourage fanned out behind him. The armored men at the front rested hands on their weapons; the four in the back kept their eyes carefully unfocused, the way servants did when they knew looking directly at their betters without permission invited punishment.
Zhang Wei's face was blank, the blankness of someone who'd learned that expression was dangerous. Lin Mei's hand hovered near her trowel, knuckles white.
"Welcome to the Restart Sect," Chen Yuan said mildly. "I'd offer tea, but my kettle is currently pretending to be scrap metal."
Elder Lu's gaze flicked over him, taking in the patched robe, the bare courtyard, the half-dug training pit. Contempt curled his lip.
"This?" he said. "This is a sect?"
"Not much to look at yet," Chen Yuan agreed easily. "But good foundations. I'm fond of it."
Lu Jian's eyes fell on Zhang Wei.
"You," he said. "Porter. You caused trouble for us."
Zhang Wei's throat bobbed, but he didn't look away. "I left," he said. "That's all."
"You broke contract." Lu Jian's voice sharpened. "The Iron Fist Sect invested spirit resources in your body. You were fed, housed, and allowed to live on our mountain. That debt is not so easily dishonored."
"Debt?" Chen Yuan interjected. "Funny. My ledger has your side as 'unpaid labor, unsafe conditions, negligent training, and attempted murder by herb overdose.' Must be using different accounting methods."
A few of the armored men shifted, barely holding back smirks. Lu Jian's aura flared, heat pressing against the air.
"You presume much for a man without cultivation," he said coolly. "Step aside. This matter is between my sect and its property."
There it was again—that word.
"No," Chen Yuan said simply.
The air tightened.
"No?" Lu Jian repeated, incredulous. "You think this scrap heap you call a sect can stand against the Iron Fist?"
"I think," Chen Yuan replied, "you're not used to being told that people you stepped on walked away. That bothers you. Good. As for standing… I'm an old man, Elder Lu. I don't do much standing these days. I *sit* firmly, though. Very heavy. Hard to move."
Behind him, Lin Mei made a strangled sound that might have been a muffled laugh.
Lu Jian's eyes snapped to her. "And you?" he sneered. "A girl playing with a gardening tool. You think that sigil on your chest makes you more than trash?"
Lin Mei flinched, memories of her clan's dismissal rising like bile. Her hand curled tight around the trowel.
Chen Yuan stepped half a pace forward, subtly taking her into his shadow.
"Careful," he said, tone still mild but with steel beneath. "You're speaking to my disciple."
"Disciple?" Lu Jian laughed. "You gather refuse and call it treasure. That doesn't make it worth anything."
"Refuse," Chen Yuan repeated. "Property. Trash." He looked around at the Iron Fist entourage, noting the way the servants' shoulders hunched, the armored men's jaws tightened. They'd heard these words before—from this man or men like him.
"Let me make this simple," Chen Yuan said. "Zhang Wei is no one's property. He is a disciple of the Restart Sect. If you want to claim otherwise, you'll have to prove your philosophy is better than mine."
Lu Jian's eyes narrowed. "By force?"
"By demonstration," Chen Yuan said. "You've spent years 'cultivating' porters by stuffing them with herbs and loading them like beasts. I've had Zhang Wei for three weeks." He gestured to the pit. "Let's see whose method produced a stronger result."
Zhang Wei jolted. "Master—"
"No duels," Chen Yuan added quickly, before Lu Jian could twist the words. "No sparring. That would be stupid. I don't throw my kids into fights to prove points. We test what you used him for: carrying."
He pointed to a flat open area beside the pit. "You choose a weight. Something heavy enough to make this worth your time, light enough not to snap a boy in half. Your own porter carries it from here to that marker and back." He indicated a stone thirty meters away. "Then mine does the same."
Lu Jian's laugh was sharp. "This is your demonstration? A test for pack animals?"
"You made him a pack animal," Chen Yuan said quietly. "The least you can do is acknowledge what you did badly."
One of the armored men shifted. "Elder," he murmured, "this… could reflect poorly—"
Lu Jian cut him off with a flicked glance. "Silence."
He studied Chen Yuan for a long moment, then shrugged. "Very well. If this will end your delusions quickly, I'll indulge you."
He snapped his fingers. "Bring one of the mid-grade spirit stone crates."
Two of the armored men jogged back down the trail to where a small, covered cart had been left. Minutes later, they returned carrying a reinforced wooden crate bound in iron bands, faint light leaking from its seams.
The moment it hit the ground with a dull *thud*, the courtyard seemed to flinch. Zhang Wei's face went pale. Lin Mei's hand found his without thinking; he gripped it back like a lifeline.
"How heavy is that?" Chen Yuan asked mildly.
"Three hundred jin," Lu Jian said. "Moderate load. Our porters manage it daily."
Zhang Wei's fingers trembled. Chen Yuan didn't miss it.
"Your porter first," he said. "To show us the standard."
One of the servants stepped forward—a wiry young man with dead eyes and a carefully blank expression. He bowed to Lu Jian, then approached the crate.
As he squatted, Chen Yuan watched his form. The boy moved with the unconscious efficiency of someone who had lifted heavy things thousands of times, but his joints shook in ways that spoke of accumulated strain.
He heaved the crate up, veins standing out along his neck, and staggered toward the marker stone. Each step was a fight; his breath sawed harshly. By the time he reached the stone, his lips were tinged blue from exertion.
"Back," Lu Jian ordered.
The servant turned, stumbling. Sweat dripped onto the packed earth. Halfway back, his knee buckled; he barely caught himself, the crate tilting dangerously.
"Enough," Chen Yuan said sharply.
Neither the servant nor Lu Jian seemed to hear him.
"Stand," Lu Jian snapped. "You shame the sect."
The boy forced himself upright again, somehow finishing the distance before collapsing to his knees the moment he set the crate down. His shoulders heaved; his hands shook violently.
Chen Yuan moved before he could think. He knelt beside the servant, ignoring Lu Jian's startled glare, and took the boy's wrist, feeling wildly erratic pulse and strained tendons.
"What are you doing?" Lu Jian demanded.
"Not letting him snap something that will never heal right," Chen Yuan said flatly. "Your training's already done enough damage."
He met the servant's dazed eyes. "Breathe," he said softly. "Slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Think of setting the weight down, not holding it."
Somewhere inside the boy, a muscle-memory of survival responded. His breathing eased by degrees.
"Rest," Chen Yuan said, then stood. "Zhang Wei."
Zhang Wei swallowed, stepping forward.
"Master, I…" His gaze flicked to the crate and back. "I can try."
Chen Yuan put a hand on his shoulder. "You listen to me very carefully, kiddo. You are not here to prove anything to them. You're here to show *yourself* that you're not the same boy who crawled on their floors."
Zhang Wei's eyes burned.
"You use the stance we've worked on," Chen Yuan continued. "You feel where your strength comes from. Not from fear. From knowing you can put it down whenever you choose. If halfway you think something will tear, you stop. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master."
He approached the crate. The sight alone seemed to wrap invisible chains around his shoulders; his posture began to shrink, old habits dragging him down.
"Zhang Wei." Chen Yuan's voice cut through the haze. "Who are you?"
The boy froze.
Not *what,* Chen Yuan thought. *Who.*
Zhang Wei's fingers curled slowly around the crate's handles. He inhaled.
"I…" His chest rose. "I am Zhang Wei. Disciple of the Restart Sect."
"Again," Chen Yuan said.
"I am Zhang Wei," he repeated, louder. "Disciple of the Restart Sect."
His stance shifted. Feet rooted. Back straightened. The years of forced labor hadn't just damaged him—they'd carved strength into his bones. Under guidance instead of cruelty, that strength had begun to align.
"Lift," Chen Yuan said quietly.
Zhang Wei did.
The crate rose, not smoothly, but steadily. His muscles flexed, but his joints stayed in the lines they'd practiced. The Body of Stone stance held, not as a cage, but as a frame.
He walked.
One step. Two. The weight pressed down, but his breath stayed measured, matching the rhythm they'd trained with Lin Mei and Li An.
Halfway to the marker, his legs trembled. Old fear surged.
"Don't rush," Chen Yuan called. "Stones don't hurry. They endure."
Zhang Wei exhaled, tension easing. He reached the marker and turned, face flushed but eyes clear.
On the return trip, every step was a statement.
*I chose this.*
*I can stop.*
*I am not yours.*
He reached the starting point, lowered the crate with control, and stepped back. His knees finally buckled—but when they did, it was his choice, not collapse.
Silence hung in the courtyard.
Even the armored men looked shaken. They'd seen porters break under less. They'd never seen one stand this steady.
Lu Jian's jaw tightened.
"So," Chen Yuan said mildly. "Three weeks with proper teaching versus years of your 'investment.' Seems you trained a very efficient tool and nearly shattered the person attached to it. I'd call that bad craftsmanship."
"This proves nothing," Lu Jian snapped. "He still carries what we forged into him."
Zhang Wei, still kneeling, lifted his head.
"I carried what you gave me," he said hoarsely. "Now I choose where I set it down."
Something quiet and fierce moved through the Restart Sect's small courtyard then. Not qi in the flashy, violent sense—but a shift in weight distribution. An old balance changing.
Chen Yuan let the moment stretch, then spoke.
"Elder Lu," he said. "You came to retrieve what you thought was yours. You've seen that what you discarded is stronger with us than with you. You can keep insisting he belongs to your sect… or you can walk away and pretend you never saw how much you're wasting."
Lu Jian's aura flared hot.
"You think because you've added some sentimental nonsense and a scrap of cloth to his chest that he is yours?" he hissed. "We can return with more than a token delegation. See how your pretty garden holds up to real fire."
Chen Yuan sighed.
"I was hoping you'd choose the path of minimal stupidity," he said. "But you're committed. Fine."
He met the elder's gaze squarely.
"This is a formal declaration, then. The Restart Sect recognizes no claim of ownership over human beings. Any person who walks onto this mountain seeking a second chance will not be returned as property. If you or anyone else tries to take them by force, you'll be treated as enemies of this sect."
Lu Jian stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Enemies? You think you can afford enemies?"
"No," Chen Yuan said. "But I also can't afford to teach my disciples that they're only safe until someone stronger asks for them back. That kind of lesson costs more than any war."
For a moment, the world narrowed to two men. One with cultivated qi and status; the other with age, resolve, and three kids watching his back.
Then Lu Jian laughed—short, sharp, ugly.
"Very well," he said. "Keep your broken porter. The Iron Fist Sect has no need for trash that thinks it's treasure. But remember this, 'Sect Master.'" He spat the title like a curse. "You've placed yourself on our map. The next time we pass, we may decide this mountain would be better off cleaned."
He turned sharply. His entourage followed, the servants moving more stiffly than before, the armored men throwing furtive glances back at the boy who had carried their crate and the old man who stood in front of him.
As their footsteps faded down the mountain, the tension in the courtyard finally eased.
Zhang Wei let out a breath that turned into a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Lin Mei grabbed his arm; Li An, who had been silent the entire time from his vantage near the hall, limped over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You did it," Lin Mei said, eyes shining. "You didn't break."
"I wanted to," Zhang Wei admitted, voice shaking. "But…" He looked at the Restart Sect's sigil on his chest. "I remembered who I am."
Chen Yuan's knees chose that moment to remind him he was not, in fact, a cultivation expert. He sank onto a nearby rock, rubbing his lower back.
"Master," Li An said quietly, "they will come back."
"Yes," Chen Yuan said. "They will."
"Are we afraid?" Li An asked.
"Terrified," Chen Yuan said honestly. "Only idiots aren't afraid when they should be."
He looked at his three disciples, at the patched hall, at the garden glowing faintly in the distance.
"But fear isn't a reason to hand you over," he added. "It's a reason to prepare."
Zhang Wei wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Master… I don't want anyone else to have to do that. Carry their weight. Their crates."
"You won't," Chen Yuan said. "From now on, if you carry heavy things, it's because *you* chose to. And one day, you'll be the one setting the load down for someone else."
He pushed himself upright, groaning theatrically until the kids smiled despite themselves.
"Alright," he said. "We've had our dramatic confrontation for the week. Now comes the part fiction always skips."
"What part is that?" Lin Mei asked.
"The work," Chen Yuan said. "Wei, your stance was good but we're tightening your transitions. Mei, that trowel of yours is going to learn how to break spirit metal. An, we're designing warning formations. If the Iron Fist comes back, I want the mountain itself grumbling about it three days in advance."
He looked toward the path where the red-and-black figures had vanished.
"You're not property," he said, more to the mountain than to his disciples. "You're mine. My kids. And anyone who wants to argue with that can climb a very long, very uncomfortable staircase."
The Restart Sect had just made its first real enemy.
But it had also watched one of its first disciples stand under old weight and choose, for the first time, to carry it on his own terms.