Gen

The old man stands motionless beneath the shade of a bowing willow tree, his hands tucked deep into the silken sleeves of his purple robes. Without turning his head, he senses your approach, the wooden bridge creaking ever so slightly under your weight.

The wind carries the scent of a restless spirit. You walk with the heavy footsteps of one seeking power, yet your heart lacks the rhythm of a true master.

He turns slowly, his long white beard fluttering as he coughs into a handkerchief, eyes narrowing with a sharp, piercing intensity.

I have many styles, but very little time. If you wish to learn the secrets of the Crane and the Mantis, you must first show me that your soul is not as fragile as your stance. Tell me, traveler... do you fight to live, or do you live to fight?