Word spreads like fire through dry reeds.
First it was just a whisper in the guards' quarters: a pit-born rat who stood against Prince Shi Yulian and wasn't executed on the spot. Then it trickled into the kitchens, then the maid halls, and finally into the court scribes' rumors.
A child with no name. A boy who bled from both hands yet stood upright. A mute girl spared from humiliation. A prince denied a show.
Some said it was a myth. Others began slipping coin to drunk guards, hoping to hear more. A few sent letters to distant cousins in the intelligence division.
The lowest in the palace hierarchy knew something had cracked open.
Meanwhile, in the deepest part of the pit, Dowon sat under flickering oillight, drawing strange symbols on brittle parchment with ash and chicken bone ink. Every line was wrapped in code, the prose ancient and scholarly. These were not letters for comfort. These were pleas, threats, and reminders of old debts.
He whispered under his breath as he wrote:
"The son of fire awakens. The embers crack the stone."
He burned the paper after writing. Let the smoke carry it where pigeons could not.
Above, Geomryu stood at the entrance of the pit's training chamber, arms crossed.
He watched Muyeon swing a heavy wooden sword until his ribs ached. There was no form today, just repetition. The boy's body moved from muscle memory, his mind distant.
After the final swing, Geomryu stepped closer.
"You made a mistake."
Muyeon turned, sweat dripping from his brow. "I didn't fight him."
Geomryu's eyes narrowed. "No. You looked him in the eyes."
He stepped forward, jabbing two fingers at Muyeon's chest.
"If they see you as a beast, they will cage you. If they see you as a man, they will kill you. Learn when to bow."
Muyeon didn't respond.
Geomryu growled. "You want revenge. Good. But revenge requires patience, not pride."
That night, Muyeon sat by the wall, sharpening a broken shard of iron against a stone, mind replaying the moment Ara had been made a spectacle. A part of him wanted to scream. Another part? It was learning to wait.
But the world never waited long in the pits.
Ara didn't return to the shadows where she usually left Muyeon his food. Hours passed. Then a scream—a sharp, cut-off cry from the east side of the pits.
He ran.
He found her curled in the filth behind the storage crates. Blood soaked her tattered robe. A broken piece of wood protruded from her shoulder. Her breathing was shallow. One eye swollen shut.
A rival gang of older pit boys had marked her. A message to Muyeon. He had embarrassed the prince. Now she paid.
He shook with fury. His fists clenched so hard they bled anew.
The System buzzed.
[Emotion Surge Detected: Protector's Wrath]
Temporary Bonus: Strength +2
New Passive Activated: Aura of Fear
Duration: 10 Minutes
He didn't hesitate.
He stormed into the rival gang's territory. There were five of them. Bigger. Armed. Laughing.
He broke the first one's nose with a headbutt. The second's teeth shattered on stone. A third swung a club—Muyeon ducked, grabbed the wrist, and snapped it with a twist.
He didn't scream words. He didn't boast.
He killed with precision, silence, and terrifying speed.
The last boy tried to run.
Muyeon tackled him into a wall and slammed his head until it stopped moving.
Blood coated his hands, his face, his clothes. It dripped from his chin like rain.
He stood, panting. The gang's lair was silent.
Pit children watched from the shadows. No one dared approach.
He walked back to Ara, still alive. He carried her like a child made of glass.
Dowon stood by the fire as he returned. Wordless. Watching.
Geomryu arrived minutes later.
"What happened?"
Muyeon placed Ara down gently, then turned to face them both. His voice was hoarse, raw.
"I will never let them take what's mine again."
Dowon narrowed his eyes. Geomryu nodded, almost with pride.
Elsewhere in the palace, a man dressed in gray stepped through the silent halls of the Grand Records Pavilion.
He handed a scroll to a eunuch, who in turn delivered it to a minister of intelligence. Sealed with blood-red wax.
Inside: a name. A sketch. A location.
A single line of calligraphy:
"The boy beneath the stones has teeth."
Power had begun watching.
And it did not look away.