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By midday, every alley and teahouse in the capital buzzed with whispers: Master Liang Wei is leaving. He is going to the west. He is going to teach barbarians.
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Some wept. Some cheered. Most simply shook their heads and wondered what the empire was coming to.
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Liang Wei himself returned to his courtyard as the sun climbed toward noon. His students were already gathered – dozens of them, from young boys to gray‑haarded men, from silk‑robed merchants to hemp‑clad laborers. They knelt in rows on the beaten earth, their heads bowed.
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He stood before them in silence for a long moment. His eyes moved across their faces – faces he had trained for years, some for decades.
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"Stand up," he said. "I am not dead yet."
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They rose slowly. Some wiped their eyes. Others stared at the ground.
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"I have been ordered to go to the Arabian Peninsula," he continued. "The Emperor himself has commanded it. I am to teach the Caliph's soldiers the art of war."
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A young student stepped forward. "Master, you cannot go. You are our teacher. Our father. Who will guide us?"
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Liang Wei placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You will guide each other. The forms I have taught you – practice them every day. The breathing techniques – do not neglect them. Teach what you know to those who are worthy. But do not teach strangers. Do not teach spies. Do not teach anyone who would use the art for evil."
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He turned to his senior students – five men and three women who had trained with him for more than twenty years.
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"You are the elders now. The manuals are hidden beneath the old well. Guard them with your lives. If the emperor's soldiers come to arrest you, do not fight. Run. Hide. Live to teach another day."
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The senior students bowed. Their faces were grim, but they did not weep.
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"I will return," Liang Wei said. "I do not know when. But I will return. Until then, keep the art alive."
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He spent the rest of the day meeting with each student individually. Some received final instructions. Others received sealed letters to deliver to distant colleagues. A few received small gifts – a wooden comb, a jade pendant, a worn copy of a classic text.
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By nightfall, the courtyard was empty. Liang Wei stood alone under the stars, listening to the crickets.
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He did not sleep.
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***
The second day began before dawn.
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Liang Wei packed his belongings into a single wooden chest: three changes of robes, a brush and inkstone, a copy of the Dao De Jing, and a small pouch of silver. Nothing more.
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His servants – twelve of them, all loyal, all trained in basic self‑defense – packed their own chests and loaded them onto carts. His guards – forty‑five men and women who had served him for years – checked their weapons and armor. They carried no banners, no flags, no signs of allegiance. They were simply travelers.
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General Feng Jian arrived at midday. His face was still bruised, but his spirit was strong. He wore plain robes and carried only a single sword.
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"Master Liang Wei," he said, bowing. "I am ready."
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"Good. Have you eaten?"
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"No."
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Liang Wei pointed to a pot of congee simmering over a fire. "Eat. The journey will be long."
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The general ate in silence. The servants finished loading the carts. The guards formed into two columns. The sun began its slow descent toward the western hills.
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As dusk approached, a messenger arrived from the palace. The emperor would see them off at the southern dock at dawn.
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Liang Wei nodded. "Tell His Majesty we will be there."
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The messenger left.
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That night, Liang Wei walked through the streets of the capital one last time. He passed the teahouse where he had drunk tea for fifty years. He passed the bridge where he had watched children play. He passed the old banyan tree where he had meditated every morning for as long as anyone could remember.
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No one saw him. He made sure of that.
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He returned to his courtyard as the first cock crowed. His servants and guards were already awake. The carts were loaded. The general stood by the gate, his sword at his hip.
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"Let us go," Liang Wei said.
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***
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The southern dock was crowded.
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Emperor Hongxi stood on a raised platform, flanked by Sorcerer Tao Zhongwen and General Li Wei. Behind them, twelve hundred soldiers stood in perfect ranks – spears gleaming, armor shining, banners snapping in the morning wind.
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Twelve army boats bobbed in the harbor, each filled with armed sailors. Beyond them, a single large junk waited – its sails furled, its decks scrubbed clean. Twenty‑six crew members stood at attention along the rails.
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Liang Wei's procession arrived as the sun cleared the eastern wall. Twelve servants, forty‑five guards, and one general walked in silence. The crowd that had gathered along the dock parted to let them pass.
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The emperor descended from his platform. He walked toward Liang Wei, his golden robes bright against the gray stone.
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"Master Liang Wei," he said. "You are ready."
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"I am ready, Your Majesty."
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The emperor looked at the column of guards. "Forty‑five guards? Twelve servants? And a disgraced general?" He raised an eyebrow. "You are essentially invulnerable, teacher. I saw you break steel with your bare hand. Why do you need guards?"
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Liang Wei smiled – a sad, gentle smile. "To feel human, Your Majesty. A man who walks alone forgets that he is a man. I do not wish to forget."
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The emperor stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I understand. Or perhaps I do not. Either way, your ship is ready. Twenty‑six crew members, paid by the imperial treasury. They will sail you to the Arabian Peninsula. They will stay with you as long as you need."
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"They will be well treated."
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"I am sure they will." The emperor stepped back. "Then this is goodbye, Master Liang Wei. May the wind be at your back."
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Liang Wei bowed – a shallow bow, but deeper than any he had given before. "May your reign be long, Your Majesty. And may you learn to listen to wise counsel before it is too late."
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The emperor's face tightened, but he said nothing.
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Liang Wei turned and walked toward the junk. His servants followed. His guards followed. General Feng Jian walked at his side.
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The crew lowered the gangplank. Liang Wei climbed aboard. He stood at the stern, facing the shore.
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The sailors raised the anchor. The sails unfurled. The junk began to move.
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On the dock, the emperor raised his hand. The twelve army boats formed a protective formation around the junk – two ahead, two behind, four on each side. Their sails caught the wind.
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For an hour, they sailed east toward the open sea. The coastline grew smaller. The Forbidden City's towers shrank to pins. The crowd on the dock became a smudge of color.
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When they reached the harbor's mouth, the army boats lowered their sails. Their oars dipped into the water, holding them in place. The junk continued alone.
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Emperor Hongxi watched from the shore. His twelve hundred soldiers stood behind him in silence. The sun was fully up now, burning the morning mist from the water.
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The junk grew smaller. Smaller. A speck on the horizon.
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The emperor did not move.
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Neither did the army boats.
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