CHAPTER 1

The hut was freezing.

Rae's hands were numb before he even opened his eyes. His mother's breathing rattled in the dark. Wet. Shallow. Wrong.

He sat up. The blanket had slipped from her shoulders again.

Her skin was cold when he touched it.

"Mother?"

Jin Seola's eyes cracked open. Dull green, like his. Barely focused.

"Go," she whispered. "You'll be late."

Late meant punishment.

Rae pulled on his torn shirt and stepped outside. Frost bit through the cloth. His stomach twisted with hunger. He couldn't remember the last time it didn't.

The outer courtyard was already full. Disciples gathered in the gray light before dawn.

Rae swept stone paths while they trained.

The broom was nearly as tall as him. Splinters dug into his palms. Blood made the handle slick.

He didn't stop. Stopping meant Instructor Shen Bao's staff.

Thirty paces away, disciples practiced forms.

Han Wei led them.

The other disciples tried to match his form. None could.

Stage Two at eight years old. A prodigy.

More than that, Elder Han Goro's grandson.

Which meant untouchable.

"Crushing Fang Strike!" Instructor Shen Bao barked. "Again!"

The disciples struck in unison. Fists drove downward, brutal and simple.

Han Wei's form was perfect. Each strike carried weight. Power without waste.

Rae's hands adjusted on the broom. His body recognized the movement. Weight shift. Hip rotation. The moment force released.

"You."

The staff cracked across Rae’s back before he could even lower his gaze.

He hit the ground. Hard.

"Eyes down, trash."

Shen Bao's boot pressed against his head, grinding his face into the stone.

"You think watching makes you a disciple?" The boot pressed harder. "You're nothing. Less than nothing."

Rae tasted blood and dirt.

"You think trash can become a martial artist? You're born to sweep, not to fight."

The boot lifted. Shen Bao's staff struck his ribs.

Crack.

"Next time I catch you watching, I'll break both your legs. Let's see you sweep then, you piece of shit."

Shen Bao walked away.

Rae pushed himself up slowly. Everything hurt.

Across the courtyard, Han Wei laughed.

The sun climbed higher. Sweat soaked through Rae's shirt. His stomach clenched. Empty. It had been two days since he'd eaten anything substantial.

When training ended, disciples flooded toward the communal hall.

Rae waited.

Inner disciples first. Outer disciples second. Servants third.

Outsiders last.

The hall emptied slowly. By the time Rae entered, only scraps remained. Cold rice stuck to the pot. Wilted greens. Something gray that might have been meat once.

He scraped it into a wooden bowl.

"Oi. Bastard."

Han Wei blocked the doorway. Two others flanked him.

Rae kept walking.

"I'm talking to you."

"I heard."

"That food's for sect members."

"I cleaned the hall."

"And?" Han Wei stepped closer. "You think that earns you anything?"

The others moved in, blocking the exit.

Rae's fingers tightened on the bowl.

He could feel it. The shift in their stance. Weight distribution. The breath before violence.

Three years of watching. Three years of breathing the way his mother taught him.

He knew what was coming.

"Put it down," Han Wei said.

"No."

Han Wei's smile sharpened. "What?"

"I said no."

The punch came fast.

Rae threw the bowl.

Han Wei dodged. Smooth. Effortless. A prodigy's reflex.

But Rae's hand followed. Fingers extended. Nails raked across Han Wei's cheek.

Blood welled. Three thin lines.

Han Wei froze.

His hand touched his face. Came away red.

Silence.

Then his face twisted. Not pain. Not shock.

Rage.

Pure, burning disdain.

Trash dared to touch me.

The other two grabbed Rae.

He didn't fight back. Fighting back meant worse.

The beating came hard. Fists. Boots. Han Wei's strikes were vicious now. The Mountain Breaker Form, designed to shatter bone.

Each blow carried his fury.

When they stopped, Rae lay tasting blood.

Han Wei stood over him, three scratches bleeding down his face.

"You're dead, outsider." His voice was cold. Flat. "Tonight."

They left.

Rae pushed himself upright. Slowly. Everything hurt.

The bowl was shattered. Food scattered in dirt.

He gathered what he could. Wrapped it in his torn shirt.

His mother needed to eat.

But when he reached the hut, something was wrong.

Smoke.

The door hung open. Figures moved in the distance, torches in hand. Laughter echoed through the valley.

Rae ran.

He burst through the door. Smoke filled the hut. Flames climbed the back wall, hungry and fast.

His mother lay against the far wall. Blood on her lips. Eyes barely open.

"Mother!"

She looked at him. Her hand trembled as it reached beneath the blanket.

A worn cord. A river stone hung from it.

Then the book. Patched leather. Childish drawings.

She pressed them into his hands. Her fingers were cold.

"Keep these." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Be strong."

Fire roared behind them. The walls crackled. Heat scorched Rae's back.

Her hand touched his face one last time.

"I love you."

Then her hand fell.

Her chest stopped moving.

Rae didn't move. He held her.

Smoke choked his lungs. Flames climbed closer. His skin burned where embers landed.

He wouldn't leave her.

The ceiling groaned. Wood splintered above.

Still he held her.

Then the roof collapsed.

Burning wood crashed down. Rae threw himself backward, clutching the book and necklace to his chest.

Fire consumed everything.

He couldn't see her anymore.

He ran.

Out the back. Through smoke and flame. His skin blistered beneath his scorched shirt. 

Behind him, the hut collapsed entirely.

Ahead, only darkness and the sound of rushing water.

The river.

His feet found the path. Down the slope. Faster.

He didn't remember jumping.

Only falling.

Cold swallowed him whole. Current grabbed his body and pulled. Smoke and water fought inside his lungs.

His fingers twitched.

Not to swim.

Not to fight.

Only to cling.

To the necklace around his neck.

To the book pressed against his ribs.

The river dragged him for a long time. Darkness crept in from every side.

His last thought was cold and clear.

Not yet. Not like this.

Then hands seized his torn clothes.