Chapter 21
The road to the Jade Palace felt like it would never end. Tao-Tai grumbled without pause about his lost tools and burned-down workshop, and I trudged alongside him with a wolverine carcass slung over my shoulder, every healing wound on my body screaming with an unbearable itch. On top of that, memories of the fight kept flashing through my mind whether I wanted them to or not.
To distract myself from both the itching and the unwanted replay reel, I decided to strike up a conversation with Shifu, who was walking ahead in silence, lost in thought.
"Master Shifu," I said, barely holding back the urge to scratch my back against the nearest tree, "how common are weapons like that, anyway? And how do masters of kung fu even make them?"
It wasn't an idle question. I had no desire to run into another one of those things and get sliced into ribbons before I even understood what was happening.
Shifu didn't slow his pace, but he turned his head slightly. His sharp gaze moved briefly to what I was carrying, as if he, too, was wondering how a wolverine had come to own such a thing.
"In the centuries that kung fu has existed, the world has absorbed no small number of wonders," he said, his voice calm but weighty. "Artifacts like that don't lie scattered on roadsides, but they are not impossibly rare either. As for how they come to be…" He paused — barely perceptibly — and a certain tension settled into the air. "…there are several paths."
Great. So there are plenty of them out there, I thought with irritation. As if there was ever any doubt.
"Most often," Shifu continued, "it is the painstaking labor of a great master-smith." His fingers shaped themselves into a gesture, as though he were gripping the handle of an invisible hammer. "Someone who pours into their creation not only the skill of their hands, but a piece of their own soul — and their qi. Drop by drop, blow by blow. Days, months, sometimes years go into ensuring the steel doesn't merely harden in the fire, but absorbs the very essence of the maker's intent. It becomes an extension of his will."
Those words didn't come as a revelation. Back when I was learning in the forge, I'd heard something similar from my own teacher — though there was never any talk of qi, only long labor and a soul poured into the work.
"But it can happen differently," Shifu went on, waving a hand. "Sometimes an utterly ordinary object, after spending long years in the company of a great individual or passing through the crucible of some world-altering event, awakens on its own — soaking in the echo of what it witnessed."
"These Claws," he said, "legend holds that they were once nothing more than ordinary claw-gauntlets. But their first owner, Master Capybara, had refined his art to the point where a single sweep of his paw could send a cutting wind flying across a room. His will, his style — they became so fused with the weapon that they eventually gave it that power."
"So he could throw those energy blades even without the weapon?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
"Ah, Panda…" Shifu exhaled with irritation. "You seem to have forgotten what I told you about qi. With qi and sufficient force of will, one can do almost anything."
"I understand. It's just…" I paused for a couple of seconds. "I still can't fully bring myself to believe it exists."
I let that sit, then pushed forward.
"How powerful can these things get, generally? And what are their weaknesses?"
Shifu considered this for a moment, his gaze drifting across the tree trunks surrounding the path.
"The power of artifacts ranges from simple augmentation of an attack to control over the forces of nature. But their defining characteristic is what they demand from their wielder." He raised a paw, cutting off my next question before I could ask it. "The more powerful the artifact, the greater the internal reservoir of qi the user must possess — and the more stable their mind must be. Many of them carry the imprint of their creator's will and can influence consciousness. And finally—" Shifu looked at me directly. "Such objects draw the attention of those who hunger for power."
Let's just hope there's no version of the Sorrow of Ice here, the thought flickered through my head.
"We keep many such artifacts here for only the most extreme circumstances," Shifu continued, his voice dropping into something quieter and more serious. "The Sacred Hammer of Lei Lan, for instance. Activating it requires a colossal reserve of qi. Used incorrectly, it could destroy not only the Palace, but the entire mountain."
A chill ran down my spine at those words, and for a moment I forgot all about the maddening itch. For some reason, I believed him without a single flicker of doubt.
"Pffff… Stupid kung fu," Tao-Tai muttered beside me, kicking a stone off the path with obvious annoyance. "Give me enough time and resources, and I'll blow up your mountain without any of this mystical nonsense. The power of technology is far more reliable."
His son Bian-Zao, however, looked like the opposite — he'd been listening to Shifu with genuine fascination. Those large eyes of his, usually veiled with a kind of distant abstraction, were now lit with curiosity.
Shifu shot a short glance at Tao-Tai, and the corner of his mouth twitched in an almost imperceptible smile. "Well," he said, with complete composure, "your faith in gunpowder is something to be admired." He paused. "But let's not put it to the test."
"Who said anything about gunpowder?" Tao-Tai snorted back.
Please don't tell me this science-obsessed lunatic has invented something like RDX, a worried thought flashed through my head, and I found myself picturing the palace reduced to a neat, smoking crater.
At a leisurely pace, we finally reached the Jade Palace. The golden rays of the morning sun played across the curved rooftops, and the air carried the cool, clean freshness of a mountain day just beginning.
The first thing Shifu did was turn to face me, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of the restored gates.
"Go to the baths," he said, in that tone of his that left no room for argument. "Wash off the dust, the blood, and the exhaustion. Your body needs rest, and your spirit needs quiet. This evening, I'll assess your condition and decide whether you're ready for tomorrow's training."
Before he could turn away, I quickly made my request.
"Master — when the prisoner wakes up, could you let me know? I have a few questions of my own for him."
I was curious about that mysterious "panda warrior" the wolverine had been singing the praises of at the start of the fight. And, if I was being honest, I desperately wanted to see the look on his face when he came to in chains.
Shifu went still for just a moment. His perceptive eyes studied my face, as if searching for whatever lay beneath my request. Then he let out a short, almost muffled sound of acknowledgment, and after a brief pause, gave a reserved nod.
But then his attention shifted to Tao-Tai, who was standing nearby. I followed the master's gaze and saw that the mechanic was completely absorbed in staring at the Palace. The usual sharpness had melted from his eyes, replaced by a strange mixture of emotions — nostalgic sorrow, bitter resentment, and a trace of something old and nearly forgotten, something close to reverence.
Shifu moved toward him slowly and, placing a paw gently on his shoulder, said quietly, "Welcome home, Tao-Tai."
There was no mockery in his voice. No reproach. Only a quiet acceptance, like a long-awaited acknowledgment of something that had always been true.
Tao-Tai flinched, as if returning from a long journey through time. Shifu said nothing more — he simply gestured for him and Bian-Zao to follow, and they shuffled after him down a side path. Their figures disappeared around a bend in the trail that, as I gathered, led toward the former mechanic's old residence.
I, for my part, followed Shifu's advice to the letter. I ran back to my room for clean clothes, then made my way to the baths. For a long time I simply stood under the warm streams of water, washing away the tension of the fight, the road dust, and the dried blood. When my body finally felt clean and my mind had cleared somewhat, I decided to take stock of the damage and carefully examined myself.
What I saw left me mildly stunned. My body was in far better shape than I had any right to expect.
The deep cuts that had gaped open like bloody gashes just that morning had now closed over with thin pink membranes, crusted brown at the edges. I drew my paw slowly across one of those healing scars, bracing for even the smallest flash of pain — and felt nothing but a persistent, ticklish itch.
Well, I'll be damned. Healing like a street dog, the thought drifted through my head.
Not that I'd ever had slow healing, even as a kid — any bruise or scratch would be gone in a matter of days. But what was happening now went far beyond anything I'd experienced before. Deep wounds that should have taken weeks to close had visibly knit themselves back together in a matter of hours.
Once the whole bathing ordeal was behind me and my body felt blessedly clean and light, I ran headlong into an unexpected problem: a complete absence of anything to do. The Furious Five were almost certainly training, which meant there was no one to talk to, and Shifu's evening visit was still a long way off.
To give myself something to do, I decided to explore the Jade Palace and take in its sights.
As I wandered through the endless corridors, I found myself humming a cheerful little tune under my breath — one that had assembled itself in my head seemingly of its own accord:
We'll make our enemies pay for it all,
Their cheeks will clench tight in fear!
If our punishment doesn't get there first,
Then bamboo will finish the job here!
We know no defeat,
We fear no despair!
We are a team! A squad! A brigade!
The dream crew beyond all compare!
Marching along to that simple tune, I started to grasp the true scale of the Palace. This wasn't merely a castle perched on a summit — it was an entire complex of buildings connected by delicate bridges spanning deep ravines. The inner courtyards were lush with dwarf pines and blooming cherry trees, and stone sculptures stood at every turn — some well-tended, others worn ragged by time.
The Palace reminded me of a giant in an age-long sleep. Many of the buildings stood with their windows boarded up, ivy crept along the walls, and in one of the wings I discovered a section of completely collapsed roof. My suspicions were confirmed: once, this place had been alive with people, and the number of students had been far greater.
Slowly drifting through the maze of deserted corridors, I stumbled quite by accident upon a small, cozy courtyard, tucked away and hidden from prying eyes. It was a garden, though not one shaped by a gardener's hand in any ordinary sense. Its entire surface was laid with black and white gravel, arranged with painstaking care into hypnotic waves and spiraling patterns. All of it resolved into one enormous Yin-Yang symbol, where two opposites didn't stand in opposition but flowed gently into one another, merging into an inseparable whole.
And at the very heart of that circle — precisely on the line dividing light from dark — sat Master Oogway. He was cross-legged on the ground, and his fingers moved slowly, with an almost tender thoughtfulness, through the black and white pebbles arranged around him. He didn't simply seem to be in the garden. He seemed to be the garden — its living center, the point of equilibrium around which the entire world of this place quietly rotated.
I froze in the entryway, not daring to disturb the old tortoise's peace. But Oogway, without turning his head, spoke in a quiet voice — surprisingly gentle, the kind of voice a grandfather might use. The kind of grandfather I'd never had.
"Ah — the young Dragon Warrior. Don't be afraid. Come closer. I doubt you found your way here at this hour by accident."
Well. He noticed me. I thought. Then again — this conversation had been a long time coming. And honestly, I was dying of curiosity to talk to someone of his caliber.
I took a few careful steps forward, trying to place my feet precisely along the perfect lines of the gravel, afraid of breaking their delicate order.
"I was just walking, Master Oogway. I didn't mean to disturb anyone."
"Disturbance," he said gently, "is as much a part of the whole as silence." A soft smile touched his face — and in it I saw not some abyss of thousand-year wisdom, but something simple and almost familiar. Warmth.
One of my steps dislodged a handful of pebbles anyway, distorting a clean line. I froze, waiting for his reaction. But Oogway only watched the shifted gravel and gave a quiet nod.
"Once, I tried to maintain perfect order," he continued, pointing to a white pebble lying in the black sector. "I would return each stone to its 'proper' place. But over time I came to understand that in doing so, I was only freezing life in place — turning harmony into a painted image. Now I simply observe. Sometimes…" He paused. "I allow the pattern to change."
Somehow it felt like he wasn't talking about the garden at all. His gaze, full of quiet understanding, was fixed on something far beyond the walls of this courtyard.
I said nothing. I had no idea what to say. There was exactly one question spinning in my head — the question that had been gnawing at me since that ill-fated appointment — but I couldn't seem to assemble it into coherent words.
"You want to ask why I chose you as the Dragon Warrior," he said quietly. No challenge in his voice. No lecture. Only a calm, open invitation to talk.
"Yes, Master Oogway." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I don't understand! By the legends, the title of Dragon Warrior is only given for the highest demonstration of mastery in kung fu. And I — I'm nowhere close to being a master. Do you have any idea how many problems have come crashing down on me because of this?"
Oogway slowly raised a hand, and his gaze slid across the line I had disturbed before returning to my face. There was no reproach in his eyes. Only deep, untroubled wisdom.
"Imagine that all kung fu masters are black stones," he began, and his fingers traced a slow arc around the black sector of the pattern. "Strong. Refined. Beautiful in their perfection. Their path is as predictable as the changing of the seasons. They will fall into an arrangement that can be calculated centuries in advance." He paused, letting that image settle, and then his finger moved gently toward one lone white pebble sitting in the middle of the perfect black mosaic. "Now look at this white stone. Unpolished. Different. It doesn't fit the familiar pattern. It falls out of place. It brings chaos. And it is precisely that kind of stone that can change the design of fate."
Is he changing the subject on me? I thought, a flash of irritation cutting through. No — wait. He's saying I'm that white stone. That I was chosen to create chaos? How ridiculous is that? What does any of this have to do with balance and harmony?
"And it is chaos that gives birth to the new," Oogway said, as if completing the thought out loud. "It is disharmony that forces a pattern to rebuild itself — to find new forms of equilibrium."
"So you chose me at random?" I raised a skeptical eyebrow, still unable to accept any of this.
Oogway shook his head gently, and the faintest smile crossed his lips.
"Accidents are not accidental," he said. "They are only the visible portion of a pattern — for those who cannot yet see the whole picture."
He fell silent. In the quiet that followed, his gaze became intent, as though he was trying to make out something inside me.
"There is infinite potential sleeping in you, young warrior. You could become anything. Even something that has grown beyond the very idea of kung fu." He raised one finger, and the air around him seemed to thicken, filling with an invisible charge. "But — you must truly want it. Not merely accept the title, but believe in yourself. Awaken the force that sleeps deeper inside you than any technique, deeper than any style."
Truly want it. Like that old fable about the marathon of wishes that one woman used to broadcast to the whole country back in my previous life. And people actually bought into it. I thought. Then again — maybe these really are the laws of this world. I wanted to get stronger, and I got stronger.
"And what if I don't want to?" The skepticism slipped out before I could catch it.
"Then you may simply decline," Oogway said, his voice still calm — but each word carried weight now. "But tell me: do you truly want that?"
And I thought about it. For real, this time.
Could I refuse this new, imposed life? Return to what I was before? And to my own surprise, I found the answer was no. Even if I tried, this fate would no longer release me. And I — I couldn't let go of it either.
The thought of going back to the noodle shop, to that quiet, predictable routine, suddenly seemed not just dull but genuinely impossible. I'd known it from the very first day: if I tried to run, this life would catch me in the darkest alley it could find. Today's fight had only confirmed it. Who knew when the next psychopath like that wolverine would show up? Would I even survive the next time?
And if I was being completely honest with myself — here, inside these insane walls, I had lived more in a handful of days than in all the years before them. Standing before Oogway now, I could feel it clearly: this wasn't only about fear, or some duty I hadn't asked for. It was hunger. A hunger to feel every cell in my body, to hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, to feel blood pushing through my veins. Even the pain was proof of something: I exist. I feel. I am actually, genuinely alive.
"No," I said.
It came out steadier than I expected.
Oogway nodded with satisfaction, as if he had known my answer long before I'd given it. But inside my head, a thought buzzed with persistent insistence: there it is — the point of no return. I have officially become that thing, the Chosen One. And by the laws of the universe, some dark lord with another deadly weapon is almost certainly sniffing at my trail somewhere out there right now.
"Master Oogway — let's get to the point." I held his gaze steadily. "None of us here are children, and I'm certain my being chosen as the Dragon Warrior was no accident. Who is the enemy that's coming for me?"
I said it clearly, hoping to finally get a straight answer — something without the usual fog of metaphors.
Oogway looked at me thoughtfully. He drew a long breath. And then he began to speak.
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