Someone had to die today.

Chen Han trudged along the road, pulling an oversized wheelbarrow behind him with one hand, a large urn filled with hard liquor in another. On the wheelbarrow was a long, wooden coffin with none of the handles or embellishments normally used to honor the dead. It was a coffin made for the common man. A coffin he purchased for himself.

Mu Feng woke to the call of a rooster, unsure where he was. He was staring into an empty flask flipped over and wedged against a stack of plates.

Among the martial arts of ancient China, Taoist and Buddhist arts are known for their deeply rooted traditions.

“Hold still, grandfather,” Sochai said, lifting his knife.

The old man closed his eyes, released a deep sigh, his soul escaping with every breath.