——The Lost Language of Change
Shawn barely remembered falling asleep.
The exhaustion from the previous day had hit him like a tidal wave the moment he lay down.
His body, drained from fear, running, and the overwhelming flood of new information, had simply shut down.
Now, as he stirred awake, the air was cool, and the room was cloaked in the deep blue hues of pre-dawn.
The silence was profound, broken only by the rhythmic beating of his own heart.
He sat up, rubbing his face, as yesterday's events came rushing back in vivid flashes.
The ambush.
The O.S.S.
William's betrayal.
The Origin Wardens.
The Thunder Arcane Core pulsing at his chest.
His fingers instinctively brushed against it. Still there. Still his.
But why did the O.S.S want it so badly? And who exactly were the Origin Wardens? How had they known about the hidden chamber beneath Laozi Palace?
His mind swirled with unanswered questions.
He exhaled, glancing toward the small, wooden door. Outside, the first hints of morning light began creeping through the cracks.
Might as well get some air.
He stood, stretched, and stepped out into the courtyard.
---
A tranquil hush filled the space.
Towering ancient trees stretched their gnarled limbs skyward, their leaves rustling faintly in the gentle breeze. The stone pathways were smooth from centuries of wear, lined with small lanterns that still flickered softly from the night before.
And then, in the misty glow of dawn, Shawn saw him.
A man, dressed entirely in white—simple robes, loose trousers—sitting in perfect stillness. His posture straight, his hands resting lightly on his knees.
He wasn't just sitting.
He was meditating.
Shawn took a slow step backward, careful not to disturb him.
"Since you're already awake, come and join me."
The voice was deep, rich, and carried a quiet authority. It was the meditating man who spoke, though his eyes remained closed.
Shawn hesitated, but something in the tone made it clear this wasn't a request.
He walked forward.
As he approached, the man finally moved.
He raised his arms in a slow, fluid arc before bringing them together in front of his chest. His breath was steady, controlled, as if every motion was part of a larger rhythm, a hidden Sect to the universe.
He opened his eyes.
"You are Shawn," the man stated.
Shawn nodded cautiously.
The man studied him for a moment before continuing.
"I know what happened to you yesterday. I know about your Thunder Arcane Core. And I know you obtained it from someone else rather than awakening it yourself."
Shawn's stomach tensed.
"That means you lack the natural connection required to control its full power."
Shawn exhaled. "So what do I do?"
The man smiled faintly.
"You must cultivate the strength to wield it. True power does not come from possession but from understanding. What you need—what you are missing—is internal mastery. Without it, the Core will never be truly yours."
Shawn frowned. "Are you saying I need training?"
"More than training. You must learn Meta Origin Kung Fu—a practice older than the Arcane Cores themselves."
The name sent a ripple of something through Shawn's mind. He had never heard it before, yet it felt… familiar.
"Meta Origin Kung Fu is the only way to refine your spirit to a level where the Core will accept you fully. And in doing so, you will also learn to protect yourself."
Shawn's heartbeat quickened.
Could this be the answer?
The man gave him a knowing look.
"I will be here for some time. If you wish to learn, I will teach you the fundamentals."
Shawn's hesitation lasted only a heartbeat.
He stepped forward, clenched his fists, and bowed deeply.
"Please teach me."
The man pressed his hands together in front of his chest—a respectful gesture, different from the bows Shawn was used to seeing.
"From now on, when greeting others in this practice, use this gesture. It is a sign of balance and unity."
Shawn mimicked the motion, feeling an odd sense of peace as he did so.
"Good," the man said.
Shawn opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could, a young monk in simple robes approached.
"Mr. Ranzi, the lecture begins at eight."
Ranzi nodded, then turned back to Shawn.
"There is a meal hall ahead where you may have breakfast. If you have time, you should attend today's lecture."
Shawn hesitated. "What's it about?"
Ranzi's eyes glinted.
"The Origins of Change."
---
The hall was packed.
Shawn had never seen so many people gathered in a single space within a temple. Monks, scholars, travelers, and even foreigners sat cross-legged on woven mats, murmuring quietly as they waited.
At the front, standing beneath a golden tapestry depicting Laozi himself, was Ranzi.
Shawn's breath caught.
He had assumed Mr. Ranzi was just a monk, a skilled fighter, a reclusive master.
But as murmurs of anticipation filled the hall, he realized something else.
Ranzi wasn't just a teacher.
He was the master.
A master of I Ching.
The realization hit him even harder when the talk began.
"Before the I Ching, before even the Zhou scholars carved their symbols into permanence… there was something else."
Ranzi's voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Something older. Something... few dare to name."
Shawn leaned forward, the air between them thick with tension.
Ranzi met his gaze.
"Meta-I Ching."
The name landed like a stone in a still pond. Shawn felt the ripples deep in his bones.
He didn't know why—but the moment he heard it, something stirred. Not memory, exactly. More like... recognition.
"It was said to be the origin. Not a book, not a doctrine—but a code," Ranzi said slowly, carefully. "A living pattern, echoing through time, hidden beneath layers of commentary, tradition... and fear."
Shawn's skin prickled.
"And though the original text was lost," Ranzi continued, "its fragments survived—disguised, embedded, waiting."
Then his tone shifted, as if reciting something long memorized:
"Change is the fundamental law, and harmony exists in the rhythm of change, where all opposites find their place."
He paused.
"This line," Ranzi said, "was not from the I Ching as you know it. It was older. And far more dangerous."
Shawn's breath caught. That phrase.
He had seen it before—scribbled on a yellowed scrap of paper, handed to him by his grandfather when he was six.
And suddenly, everything started to move—connections sparking like flint in the dark.
Secretary General Quinne. The Meta Origin Sect. The Chan Sect.
Had it all been about this?
Meta-I Ching...
Whatever it truly was—it wasn't just ancient.
It was hidden.
And someone had gone to great lengths to keep it that way.