Chapter 5 – The Wushang
At dawn, Michaël, Lucie, and Sonam had left the residence, carrying with them the last glimmer of hope: convincing Ahsan to heal Émilie using the Codex of the Vajra.
Émilie, weakened, hovered between life and death, lying in an isolated room of Anastasia's grand manor.
A warm chamber, gilded by sheer curtains, where incense and amber candles burned softly.
The air smelled of melted wax and dried herbs. The heat felt thick, almost tangible, clinging to the skin like a living breath.
Anastasia, draped in pale silk, placed her palms upon Émilie's back, slowly transferring her Qi into the young woman's body.
Beneath her fingers, she felt a shiver run up her arms, the hesitant flow of life, twisted by an alien force.
A metallic taste filled her mouth: corrupted Qi.
The poison vibrated within Émilie's meridians like a sleeping serpent, ready to strike.
The incense, usually soothing, now stung her throat.
Each breath reminded her that the senses themselves, smell, touch, taste, would be the first victims of this invisible scourge.
When Émilie's breathing became steady, Anastasia covered her with a linen blanket and withdrew to the sitting room.
She sank into her old rocking chair, facing the fireplace, where a calm flame danced.
On the sideboard, a yellowed photograph caught her eye: herself, younger, smiling beside a Vietnamese woman with a shaved head: Nguyen Thi Dao, and between them, a blond-haired boy seated in a wheelchair.
A gentle smile brushed Anastasia's lips.
Then, slowly, her eyelids closed.
A name formed on her lips, first as a memory, then as a forbidden prayer: Marten…
The crackle of the fire became a song of the past.
The fire whispered softly. Beneath her closed eyes, the present dissolved.
And like a mist lifted by the wind, memories came to claim her.
The images surged forth, sharp and vivid with life.
She saw herself young again, walking the dusty roads of Yunnan, then the rice fields of Tonkin, alongside Thi Dao, the Vietnamese nun with sun-kissed skin and piercing eyes.
They lived with little, sharing rice and knowledge, crossing temples and villages to heal, to pray, or simply to listen.
One evening, in a narrow alley of Hanoi, destiny revealed itself.
An old storyteller recited a legend, holding passersby spellbound with his rough, rhythmic voice.
Suddenly, mid-sentence, he choked.
His throat tightened, his breathing turned to a wheeze.
A white haze clouded his gaze before he collapsed, trembling, unable to utter a sound.
Thi Dao knelt at once.
She noticed a small dark mark at the base of the old man's neck and murmured gravely:
— Độc Lục Căn… the Poison of the Six Roots.
A chill ran down Anastasia's spine.
Thi Dao explained:
"This poison was the weapon of the Ngàu Tay, the Tay Shadows.
A tribe of assassins from northern Vietnam, vanished for centuries.
They did not kill for money, but to punish those who disturbed the balance of the unseen world.
Their poison does not bring death at once. It destroys what is most precious in a human being: the six sensory roots.
First the voice… then hearing, sight, smell, taste… and finally the mind.
On the twelfth day, the victim is nothing but an empty shell."
Anastasia remembered the vacant stare, the extinguished light in the storyteller's eyes.
From that day on, she swore to find a cure.
She studied the healing arts, internal chi surgery, the meditation of meridians.
Yet the poison remained without a known remedy.
The House of D'Aureval
Years later, Anastasia and Thi Dao were invited to the home of Anastasia's brother, Michel D'Aureval, a French noble settled in Asia for business.
The estate, European in design yet bordered by a vast lotus garden, was steeped in deceptive peace.
Anastasia shared tea with Michel and his wife, while Thi Dao preferred the solitude of the garden.
There, among trembling blossoms and languid carp, she noticed a child seated in a wheelchair, gazing at his motionless feet.
His blond curls shimmered in the setting sun.
His name was Marten D'Aureval.
Thi Dao approached and smiled at him.
— You seem sad, little lotus.
— I can't walk… and my father says I'm useless.
The nun placed a hand on his shoulder.
— Then begin by breathing.
She taught him simple, gentle movements, gestures to feel the inner flow.
— Each day, practice a little. Water does not break stone; it shapes it.
Days became weeks. Weeks turned into months.
Marten persevered.
Slowly, his body awakened.
One morning, under the tearful gaze of Thi Dao and Anastasia, he stood.
For four years, he trained without rest under Thi Dao's guidance.
Then, one day, the two women vanished without a word.
Marten waited, prayed, hoped.
They never returned.
So he continued alone.
The years passed.
Marten traveled, challenged the masters of the world.
Each fight elevated him, and consumed him.
His style grew harsher, colder, more perfect.
Until the day when…
In a cave glittering with gold and treasures, each reflection danced along the damp walls like a sacrilegious fire.
At its center stood Marten, clutching an ancient manuscript of engraved palm leaves—the Codex of the Varja, the Great Martial Sūtra.
The Sanskrit inscriptions glowed with a pale blue light, as if each word still burned with spiritual breath.
Before him, a man lay on the ground, his face bloodied.
Anastasia witnessed the scene through her dream, trapped in a nightmare too real.
— Marten! she screamed, her voice shattered by fear.
But her cry vanished into the void.
A young woman threw herself at Marten's feet, clinging to his waist, begging him to spare the man.
He remained impassive.
With a cold motion, his fist struck.
Anastasia shut her eyes, unable to endure the horror.
When she opened them again, Marten was already disappearing into the darkness of the cave.
Behind him, the two bodies lay motionless in a pool of blood.
Anastasia's heart raced. Tears rose to her eyes, frozen in the horror of a memory she would never erase.
The memories faded within Anastasia's mind.
Colors drained away, leaving only gray, then black.
In the darkness, a figure appeared—gentle, luminous, draped in shadow and compassion.
It was Thi Dao.
"Do not let what still breathes within you be extinguished, Anastasia.
The world is only lost when we forget those who still see us.
Protect what awaits you, not what you have lost."
She saw Marten again, a child wandering in darkness:
"Aunt Ana! Sifu! Where are you? I feel so alone…"
Anastasia, in tears, reached out toward him, her voice breaking in the void:
— Marten, forgive me… forgive me for not being there! Thi Dao, forgive me, I did not keep your promise.
As Marten grew, his body hardened.
His movements became sharp, precise, almost inhuman.
His Qi turned to shadow—a black flame enveloping his entire being.
His hands were covered in a dark, viscous liquid, flowing like ancient blood.
He whispered then, more to himself than to the world:
— Guided by honor. Preserve the balance of the martial lineages. Bear alone the weight of the Codex of the Vajra…
But already, darkness swallowed him whole.
In total blackness, his silhouette dissolved—only his voice remained, heavier, deeper, echoing from the abyss:
— Guided by honor. Preserve the balance of the martial lineages. Bear alone the weight of the Codex of the Varja…
A silence. Then, like an echo from another world:
— I am the Unsurpassed of the Jianghu…
— I am Ahsan, the Wushang.
The Awakening
Anastasia jolted upright.
Her breath was short, her face slick with sweat.
The fire in the fireplace had gone out.
In the manor's silence, only Émilie's distant breathing proved that the real world still existed.
She looked at the photograph.
Her fingers trembled.
— Marten… do not force me to see you again under that face.
A candle flame reignited by itself, like a promise, or a warning.