Dragon Domination: The Ultimate Legacy.

The days rolled by like clouds — gentle, uneventful, and quiet.

Yun Long's world had settled into a rhythm. Mornings with Old Chen, afternoons hauling wood and herbs, evenings spent sitting cross-legged on the porch as his mother boiled dried lotus roots into a calming broth. He listened to his father sharpen tools, and in the quiet hours before sleep, he read worn scrolls about cultivators of old.

Not that he understood much of what he read.

Still, something stirred in him whenever he stared at the faded illustrations of warriors riding sword-light across the skies or monks splitting rivers with their palms. He couldn't imagine what that power must feel like—but he wanted to.

"One day," he murmured as he drew crude lines in the dirt with a stick, "I'll be strong enough just like every cultivator describe in the scroll."

Behind him, the hearth crackled softly.

"Yun Long," his mother called, "bring the herbs in. The dew's falling."

"Yes, Mama!"

He sprang up and ran to the rack where strands of spirit grass were hanging to dry. The bundle smelled faintly of sweet earth. In the center of it was a thin stem of something blue-veined and unfamiliar—one of the pieces Old Chen had given them the previous day.

Yun Long glanced at it with curiosity, then tucked it carefully into the fold.

---

The next morning, Old Chen was grumpier than usual.

"Your posture's off again. Bend your knees. No, not like a duck!"

"I'm trying, Master Chen!"

"You're trying wrong."

But even through the scolding, Old Chen's tone was not sharp. There was warmth beneath it, like coals under ash.

Yun Long practiced breathing until his face turned red, His spine ached, His knees wobbled. Yet when the old man finally grunted in approval, Yun Long beamed.

"Good. You lasted a little longer today. But don't think strength comes in a day or two."

"I won't!"

Old Chen nodded slowly. "Once your roots are firm, we can speak about Qi. For now, make your body a vessel worthy of it."

Yun Long didn't know what that meant. But he liked the sound of it.

---

That evening, just before dinner, a bell rang from the south trail.

Soft, almost shy, like it had traveled a long way and forgotten how to be loud.

Yun Long dropped his bundle of firewood at the front gate and peeked out. His eyes widened.

A merchant had arrived — his robes coated with dust, his cart covered with a crimson cloth, and a faded bell tied loosely to its handle. His mule nickered tiredly, but the man stood straight and smiling.

"I bring goods from the southern valleys," the merchant called. "Balms, teas, and a few trinkets from my last stop. May I offer my trade here in Qinghe?"

The villagers stirred. A few children crept forward, followed by cautious parents. The village elder stepped forth, squinting at the man.

"You've come a long road, traveler. You're welcome here for as long as your hands remain honest."

"I thank you."

Yun Long tugged on his father's sleeve. "Can I see what's in the cart?"

"Tomorrow," Old Yun said, smiling faintly. "Let the man rest first."

Yun Long didn't press. But he kept looking. Something about that red cloth made his fingers itch—not because he thought it was special, but because it looked old. Like something out of the stories he read.

---

That night, as stars began to appear and laughter from nearby homes drifted on the wind, Yun Long lay curled on his mat staring at the ceiling.

He wondered what stories the merchant would tell, What things he'd seen.

And what treasures might be hidden under that cloth.

Just for a little while, he forgot the soreness in his limbs… and dreamed of mountains, swords, and the soft glow of golden light.

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