original

Wings of the Phoenix

นักเขียน: Myth_Valley

บท 1: 1. The Final Breath of a Master

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The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the skies in hues of molten gold and crimson.

In a secluded valley surrounded by ancient, mist-covered mountains, a lone dojo stood as a testament to an era long past. The structure was humble, yet exuded a commanding presence. Its weathered wooden walls bore the scars of countless battles, and its courtyard, once vibrant with eager disciples, now lay eerily silent.

Within the dojo, Master Kenshiro Mori knelt before a simple shrine adorned with incense and an old katana. His sharp eyes, lined with the marks of time, gazed intently at the flickering flame of a candle.

Kenshiro, a man whose very name invoked awe and respect in martial arts circles, had spent his entire life mastering the art of the body and mind. Now, at the age of 42, he stood at the pinnacle of his craft, known as the 'Living Dragon' to those who revered him.

But greatness came with enemies, and tonight, the shadows of his past were closing in.

Kenshiro's life had been a journey of discipline and sacrifice. Born into poverty, he had risen through sheer will and an almost supernatural affinity for combat. His technique, honed over decades, combined flawless precision with raw, unyielding power. He had no equal in the world of martial arts.

But Kenshiro's renown was not just due to his skill. His reputation had been forged through stories—tales of him singlehandedly defeating a hundred armed men to protect a village, of him toppling a corrupt martial arts clan, and of him mastering forbidden techniques deemed too dangerous to practice.

His name had become a legend!

Yet, Kenshiro's greatest regret was the path of solitude he had chosen.

"A master must walk alone," He often told himself, though the echo of empty halls reminded him of what he had sacrificed.

As the last incense stick burned to ash, a young man entered the dojo. His silhouette was illuminated by the fading sunlight, and his expression carried both reverence and urgency.

"Master Kenshiro," He said, bowing deeply. "I bring grave news."

Kenshiro turned slowly, his movements as deliberate as the passing of time. His piercing gaze settled on the young man, who he recognized as Akio, the son of a former disciple.

"Speak," Kenshiro commanded, his voice as calm as still water.

"A faction of assassins from the Black Lotus Clan has been sighted near the valley. They claim to seek vengeance for their fallen leader, whom you defeated years ago."

Kenshiro closed his eyes briefly, the memories of that fateful encounter surfacing.

The Black Lotus Clan had been ruthless, spreading chaos across the region. Kenshiro had taken it upon himself to end their reign, defeating their leader in a duel that had left him scarred but victorious.

It seemed the seeds of vengeance had taken root.

"Thank you, Akio," Kenshiro said, standing to his full height. "You should leave this place. The Black Lotus is not to be trifled with."

"But Master—"

"Go. I have faced death before."

Reluctantly, Akio bowed and left the dojo.

Kenshiro stood alone, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his chiseled face.

That night, the valley was shrouded in an unnatural silence. Kenshiro prepared himself, donning his simple gi and tying his long black hair into a single braid. He stepped into the courtyard, the cool night air brushing against his skin.

The moon hung high, its pale light illuminating the dojo grounds.

The sound of footsteps broke the stillness. Hundreds of figures emerged from the shadows, their movements swift and predatory. They were clad in black, their faces obscured by masks adorned with the emblem of a lotus.

Each carried a weapon—katana, kusarigama, nunchaku—yet their postures suggested they were hesitant. Even in their numbers, they feared the man who stood before them.

From their midst, a figure stepped forward. He was taller than the rest, his presence commanding. He removed his mask, revealing a face marred by a jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jaw.

"Kenshiro Mori," The man said, his voice dripping with malice. "The Living Dragon. You took my father's life and destroyed our clan."

Kenshiro inclined his head slightly. "Your father chose a path of darkness. I merely ensured he could harm no one else."

The man snarled. "And now, you will pay for it. Tonight, the legend of the Living Dragon ends."

The attackers moved as one, a tide of black rushing toward Kenshiro. But the master did not falter. With a deep breath, he entered a state of complete focus, his movements fluid and precise. His fists became a blur, deflecting blades and striking with pinpoint accuracy.

The first wave of attackers fell within seconds, their weapons clattering to the ground.

A man wielding a kusarigama swung the chain toward Kenshiro, who caught it mid-air and pulled the assailant forward, delivering a devastating elbow to his ribs. Another lunged with a katana, only to be disarmed with a single twist of Kenshiro's wrist.

Despite his mastery, the sheer number of enemies began to weigh on him. Sweat dripped from his brow as he evaded strike after strike, his movements slowing imperceptibly. The leader of the Black Lotus Clan watched from a distance, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"You fight well, old man," He taunted. "But even dragons grow weary."

Kenshiro's breathing grew heavier, but his resolve remained unshaken. He had fought countless battles, but this one felt different. He was not fighting to win; he was fighting to protect his legacy.

Each strike, each movement, was a testament to the life he had lived—a life dedicated to the pursuit of perfection.

He thought of Akio, of the students who had once filled the dojo with laughter and determination. He thought of the villagers he had protected, and the countless lives he had saved.

And for the first time, he felt at peace.

As the moon reached its zenith, Kenshiro stood amidst a sea of fallen foes. Only the leader of the Black Lotus remained, his expression now one of uncertainty.

"You still stand?" The man said, drawing his own blade. "Impressive. But you are mortal, Kenshiro. And mortals fall."

The two men charged at each other, their movements a blur. The clash of steel echoed through the valley as they traded blows, each strike more ferocious than the last.

Kenshiro's body screamed in protest, but his spirit burned brightly.

In the end, it was a single moment of hesitation that decided the battle. As Kenshiro deflected a strike, a second blade—hidden in the leader's sleeve—slashed across his abdomen.

The master staggered, blood staining his gi as he fell to one knee.

The leader sneered, raising his blade for the final strike. But Kenshiro, with the last of his strength, delivered a devastating punch to the man's chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

The leader coughed violently, his weapon slipping from his grasp.

Kenshiro knelt in the center of the courtyard, his vision blurring. The world around him grew quiet as his life ebbed away. He gazed up at the moon, a faint smile on his lips.

"A master must walk alone," He whispered to himself. "But perhaps… the next life will be different."

With those final words, Kenshiro Mori, the Living Dragon, closed his eyes and embraced the stillness.

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