Zhen Shuren traced the inlayed lettering in the cold stone lovingly. His fingers followed his beloved wife's name that was engraved into the hard granite headstone. He was in a room he had built specially to entomb her.

The room had grey stone walls. The tiled floor opened up to a square plot of earth in the centre of the room. Lady Xiuying, beloved wife of Zhen Shuren was buried there. Fresh colourful petals covered her grave.

"Xiuying, my love, our son has returned. He is alive."

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Xuelei opened his eyes to a cool dim room. The large open area was empty except a small corner which had been turned into a living space. He lay in a comfortable cot. He had no strength but he was alive. He drew in a painful breath and shuddered at the tight constrictions in his chest. The wound across his back stretched.

He was shirtless, clothed only by thick bandages across his middle and back. He had on a loose fitting pair of pants. A light woollen blanket covered him.

He was not alone. He heard the sounds of cloth flapping, the swish of a weapon cutting through the air. Someone was training in the large room. Xuelei moved his head slightly, a man came into view. He was practicing the sword.

The man paused slightly throwing a glance in Xuelei's direction. The man was aware that he now had an audience, yet he continued the steps of his intricate dance until he had completed it in a dramatic pose, his sword slicing the air in front of him. He stayed locked in his ending stance for a few moments before lowering is sword.

Sheathing his weapon, he neared Xuelei's cot.

"You're awake," a gruff voice said.

Xuelei blinked. The man's face was partially covered by a mask. He nodded slowly.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Xuelei's hoarse voice was barely audible.

The man did not answer.

Another breath and Xuelei exploded in a fit of coughing, blood spewing from his mouth. The sudden racks rocked his weak body. He clutched his chest in desperation gasping for breath, but every breath he drew was accompanied with sharp jabs to his lungs and chest. By the time the fit of coughing had passed, he was limp with exhaustion. He lay curled on his side in a foetal position, trying to suppress the numbing pain in his chest.

Bright red spots formed on the bandages at his back. His convulsions had aggravated the slash wound.

"Stay still. You will not undo all I have done to save you. I will not allow it."

The man came nearer to bedside and lifted Xuelei carefully. The young assassin winced at the movement. The man reached over to a nearby side table and brought a steaming bowl of liquid to Xuelei's lips.

"Drink this. It will help with the pain."

Xuelei shook his head feebly. Was this guy trying to poison him? Never drink anything you are not sure of. That was one of the rules of survival. When your job was to kill people, people often tried to kill you too.

"Drink."

Although the man did not raise his voice, the way he said it compelled immediate and absolute obedience. Xuelei frowned, recognising the coercion. There was nothing wrong with his mind. This guy was skilled indeed to use the arts in his voice.

He was too weak to fight mentally or physically. What the hell, everybody dies, right? Maybe dying was better than being trapped in this broken body, he thought.

Xuelei took a tentative sip of the bitter spicy brew. The hot liquid burned his throat but strangely soothed it too. He let out a sigh of relief. Maybe this guy was not going to kill him after all.

"Thank you."

His cracked voice was a whisper. He grimaced with the effort of talking.

"Rest. Do not speak. Your throat has severe lacerations ..." the man said, his voice questioning.

"Whip." Xuelei manage the single word in explanation.

The man frowned, his dark eyes flashing in suppressed anger.

"Rest now. We will talk later when you have recovered. It is difficult to talk with a strangled throat and injured lung."

The man pushed him down gently and covered him with a light woollen blanket. The boy was already shivering.

"Lie on your back, it will hurt but it will put less pressure on your chest and make breathing easier. Keep still."

Xuelei closed his eyes, letting his damaged body rest. The bitter medicine the man had given him was working. He concentrated on not feeling the pain which enveloped him. He went into a light trance and floated into the welcoming darkness.

Shuren watched the boy's shallow breathing gradually regulate. His careful controlled mask that hid the pain it took to get air into his punctured lungs relaxed in sleep. His youthful features smoothed out. Although the boy had regained consciousness for a bit, his pallor was still not good.

The boy's face was ashen, his lips still had a bluish tinge to it. The boy's skin was clammy and of course he was still as weak as a baby. He had lost a lot of blood. Despite that, the boy had the sense to minimise his discomfort by entering a trance.

Shuren smiled in approval. Smart, sensible boy. He felt an odd sense of pride.

Shuren had brought the boy into his sanctuary, hidden in the mountains itself. He had carried the slight body through the secret passageway and into the cool soothing calmness of his hideaway.

Once safe, he had removed the torn rags and cleaned the boy up as much as he could. Xuelei had remained unconscious the whole time, only grunting in pain when Shuren had cleaned his wound and disinfected it with strong heated alcohol.

The saber had run right through the boy's back and out his chest to pin him to the ground facedown. Only cowards attacked in groups and from behind, Shuren thought with distain.

He had bandaged the boy up, covering the holes with thick gauze and salves. The sword had punctured the boy's lungs. His right punctured lung had collapsed, making breathing painful. Once the inner wall healed, he would work on strengthening the lungs. Proper breathing was crucial to martial arts. It provided strength and precision.

His gaze went to the healed scar on Xuelei's arm. He wondered if the boy knew what it meant. His eyes narrowed, he wondered if his kidnapper had known what it meant, probably not or she would have chopped off his arm or scraped the mark off.

The twisted circle within a double circle was the Zhen's family mark of a warrior. It was a mark known only to the core family. Those who bore it, bore it proudly. Traditionally, it marked a Zhen's warrior's rite of passage. Boys of the Zhen clan were marked so when they came of age and even some girls, if they so choose it.

It symbolised eternal life, a never-ending cycle of life, death and rebirth. The twisted circle inside reflecting both the righteous and evil paths one had to travel in life as a warrior. The eternal struggle between good and evil. Certain decisions are not clear cut. Sometimes one had to walk the path of destruction and death for the greater good.

Shuren had not given his son a choice. He had marked him when he was still a babe, determined that his son would be a warrior.

Shuren remembered the day he brought his new born son into his secret chamber. His wife, Xiuying was present when he had taken the brand from the red glowing coals and placed the red hot brand onto his son's young tender skin. The stench of burning flesh had filled the chamber. The baby's loud wails of protests had made Shuren swell with pride but his Xiuying had cried tears of pain for her baby. She was so gentle hearted.

With the deed done, they had stayed in recluse for two weeks taking special care of the baby until he had healed. Little Xiumin was a tough little fellow. He only cried that one time. He had yelled on top of his lungs, a series of angry wails which ended in hiccups. His mother had cried with him feeling his pain.

Xiuying had soothed him and rocked him in her arms for hours until he fell into an exhausted sleep. Later, Xiumin had woken up still in his mother's embrace and had been fine and in his usual good humour. Shuren had never been so proud of his son.

"Xiumin, you have come back to me at last."