Early spring, February. Drizzle had fallen continuously for a whole week. Today, the rain finally ceased—but instead came thick fog.

A dense, white mist blanketed the entire city from horizon to horizon. Visibility stretched only two or three meters at best; beyond that, everything blurred into a hazy, shapeless void.

At seven in the morning, the sky remained dim. Shen Hao left his rented apartment and headed toward a nearby forest park for his daily morning run.

The fog clung even heavier in the hills. The winding mountain path ahead resembled an endless time tunnel, everything veiled in a milky-white haze.

Shen Hao was nearsighted, but wearing glasses in this weather would only worsen his vision, so he’d left them behind when he left home.

Dressed in sportswear and running shoes, moisture from the fog had already condensed into fine droplets across his hair and clothing, leaving both damp and clinging.

The forest was utterly silent—so quiet he could hear his own footsteps, his breathing, and, occasionally, strange, eerie bird calls echoing through the hollows of the hills.

Gradually, his breath grew heavier.

He concentrated on regulating his breathing rhythm, as he always did during his runs.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his abdomen. He stopped abruptly, grimacing in agony and clutching his stomach, struggling to catch his breath.

Just ahead, a stone bench sat beside the trail. Ignoring the dead leaves and dampness covering its surface, he staggered over and slumped onto it.

The pain had struck without warning—but within seconds, it began to subside.

He let out a long sigh. Yet instead of relief, his expression grew even more grave.

He’d always been the type to avoid doctors. When the abdominal pain had first started—mild and infrequent—he’d ignored it. But now, as the episodes grew shorter in interval and more intense, worry finally took hold. He’d already taken sick leave and planned to go to the hospital for a check-up.

He couldn’t shake the dread: Was it something terminal? He was still young, his career just beginning—how could he possibly face death now? Regret gnawed at him. What if his procrastination had allowed the illness to worsen beyond treatment?

His earlier good mood had vanished, shattered by this sudden pain.

After resting a while and regaining his composure, he tried to suppress his anxious thoughts. There was no point in speculating before the medical tests. Worrying now would only cause unnecessary distress.

Resolving to wait for the results, he stood up again and glanced down the trail that led deeper into the forest. For a moment, he hesitated—should he continue his run?

He disliked quitting halfway. Turning back now went against his nature. But then again—what if continuing made his condition worse? There wasn’t solid evidence, but it wasn’t impossible, either.

After a brief internal debate, he decided his health mattered more than stubbornness. Today wasn’t the day to obsess over finishing the run.

With that settled, he turned around and started walking back toward home.

Yet he’d barely gone a few steps when a strange sound caught his ear—a brief, sharp whooshing noise coming from the small grove to his left.

The sound was unnaturally crisp and rhythmic, as if someone were swinging a heavy object through the air.

Curious, he stopped at the forest’s edge and peered in. But all he saw was gloom and swirling fog. Combined with his uncorrected nearsightedness, he couldn’t make out anything clearly.

He listened carefully. The sound didn’t stop—in fact, it grew louder, accompanied now by the rustling of branches and leaves, as though someone were striking tree trunks.

Could it be tree thieves?

The thought crossed his mind.

He considered his options. He couldn’t just walk away as if he’d heard nothing. Since he’d encountered this, he ought to investigate. At 175 cm tall—which he liked to round off to 180—and with a solid build, he felt confident any thief would think twice before getting violent.

As for why he didn’t just call the police—it was because he never brought his phone on morning runs.

He never listened to music, never checked the time. One loop around the park took about an hour—close enough. And who would call him this early anyway? Carrying a phone felt unnecessary, even cumbersome, so he always left it behind.

Thus, with no way to contact help, he decided to risk a quick look himself. If it really was a thief, and things turned dangerous, he figured he could outrun them anyway. It shouldn’t be too risky.

Making up his mind, he stepped over the roadside ditch and slipped into the woods.

The trees in this municipal forest park were meticulously maintained, growing densely with thick, interlaced canopies.

Inside, it was even darker than it appeared from outside. The overhead foliage blocked what little daylight there was, and with the fog and his poor eyesight, visibility shrank to barely two meters—and even that was fuzzy.

Moving carefully to avoid snapping dry branches and making noise, he crept forward.

His plan: get close enough, then suddenly reveal himself to scare off the intruder, avoiding direct confrontation and reducing risk.

Once back home, he’d call the police to handle the investigation.

As he neared, the whooshing sounds and rustling grew clearer.

Then, finally, he caught sight of what was happening—and his eyes widened in shock.

Not far ahead, a slender figure darted and leaped among the trees. The rustling came from feet kicking against trunks, shaking branches; the whooshing was the sound of fists slicing through the air.

In the dim, fog-drenched light, the figure moved like a phantom—appearing and vanishing between patches of mist. His blurry vision could only make out a general outline, but the swinging single ponytail confirmed it: this was a woman.

Her movements were athletic and fluid, her leaps agile, her punches heavy and deliberate—nothing like the showy, ineffective “martial arts” seen on TV.

Could real martial arts actually exist?

Just as this thought surfaced in his mind, the woman spotted him. Mid-air, she twisted her body, snapped her head around, and barked sharply, “Who’s there?!”

Before the words even finished echoing, she’d already flipped in midair and lunged toward him.

Her speed was unreal. Before Shen Hao could even register what was happening, he felt a sharp impact against his face—and then everything went black.

The woman landed lightly on both feet. Only then did she get a clear look at the man she’d just sent flying. He lay unconscious on the ground.

“Oh no…” slipped from her lips.

She appeared to be in her late twenties, dressed in lightweight, loose-fitting training clothes, seemingly unfazed by the lingering chill of early spring.

She had large phoenix-shaped eyes, slender arched eyebrows, a gently contoured face, and smooth, unadorned skin—undeniably beautiful, yet carrying an inexplicable air of seductive allure that seemed to emanate from within rather than from any deliberate affectation.

A woman so lean, with such a flat chest and slender frame, had just launched herself two or three meters into the air—and kicked a grown man unconscious. Most adult men couldn’t achieve that.

And she hadn’t even used her full strength.

This seemed to confirm Shen Hao’s fleeting suspicion just before blacking out: perhaps true martial arts really did exist.

Now, seeing the man unconscious at her feet, she couldn’t just vanish. She was currently under what amounted to house arrest. It had taken two full years of good behavior and recent meritorious service just to earn limited permission to leave her confinement briefly. And now, on her very first morning of relative freedom—just trying to practice forms quietly in the woods—she’d been discovered. How unlucky.

She shook her head, inwardly chiding herself. Was it overreaction… or simply lowered vigilance? How had someone gotten within three meters before she noticed?

Thankfully, her current strength was far diminished from what it had been two years ago. Back then, that kick would’ve killed an ordinary person outright. Now, it had merely knocked him out.

Then again—if she still possessed her former power, she never would’ve let a civilian sneak so close. She would’ve sensed his presence the moment he entered the woods and disappeared long before he saw anything.

Sighing again, she banished these pointless “what-ifs” from her mind. Stepping forward, she crouched beside Shen Hao, grasped his left hand, turned the palm upward, and pressed three fingers of her right hand against his wrist.

The motion was practiced and precise—as if she were a seasoned traditional Chinese physician checking a patient’s pulse.

Indeed, that was exactly what she was doing.

Though confident her kick hadn’t been lethal, she still needed to ensure she hadn’t caused internal injury.

But the moment her fingers touched his pulse, her eyes flickered with surprise.

“Nine-Yin Pulse? False Yin Constitution? How… interesting. Both in the same person.”

A faint, intrigued smile touched her lips. Of all the random people she might have struck, this one turned out to possess two exceedingly rare constitutions—each extraordinary on its own, let alone combined.

She studied his unconscious face more closely, her brow furrowing slightly, as if a memory stirred.

Then, softly, almost to herself, she murmured, “Could this… be fate?”