The days after his mother’s death blurred together.

Rae Jin rose before dawn, long before the training drums echoed through Lone Fang Valley.

Out of habit.
Out of memory.

He sat cross-legged beside the hut, where frost still clung to the ground. His back was straight, his hands resting lightly on his knees.
The cold bit through his thin clothes.

He breathed anyway.

Slow.
Deep.
Quiet.

The way she had taught him.

He did not know it yet, but this was the last kindness the valley would ever allow him.

When the first drum sounded, Rae Jin stood and ran.

The training courtyard was already alive when he arrived.

Young disciples in clean gray robes gathered beneath fluttering banners, stretching and laughing as instructors barked orders. Wooden practice dummies lined the stone paths, scarred from years of strikes.

Rae Jin was not among them.

A broom nearly as tall as his body rested in his hands as he swept the courtyard’s outer paths alone. Stone scraped against straw with every pass.

By the time the sun crested the valley, his fingers were numb.

From where he worked, he could see them train.

Stances drilled into muscle.
Steps measured and precise.
Fists cutting clean arcs through the air.

Rae Jin paused only for a heartbeat.

His eyes followed the movements.

Weight shift.
Balance.
Timing.

Without realizing it, his grip on the broom adjusted. His foot slid back.

The broom swept forward—smooth, controlled—mirroring the strike he had just seen.

Crack.

The broom snapped in half.

In Lone Fang Valley, talent without permission was more dangerous than weakness.

Rae Jin froze.

Instructor Shen Bao stood before him. Iron-gray hair tied back. Robes spotless. Eyes like chipped stone.

“Who allowed you to try to learn our forms?” Shen Bao asked calmly.

Rae Jin lowered his head. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” the instructor cut in.

He kicked the broken broom aside.

“Outsiders do not learn Lone Fang techniques.”

His gaze hardened.

“Know your place.”

Nearby, laughter broke out.

Han Wei stood among the younger disciples, arms crossed, lips curled in disdain. His robes were newer than the others. His posture confident—entitled.

Grandson of Elder Han Goro, head of the Valley’s outer defenses.

Han Wei trained harder than most—not from discipline, but arrogance.

“Who does he think he is?” Han Wei scoffed.

Another boy snickered. “Elder Han says real strength is inherited.”

Han Wei smirked. “That’s why trash stays trash.”

Rae Jin did not look up.

He gathered the broken broom and continued working until the stones were clean.

Rae Jin worked until nightfall.

When the courtyard emptied and the lanterns dimmed, the smell of food still clung to the air.

He waited.

That was the rule.

Only after the last disciple left did he enter the dining hall.

The tables were a mess of overturned bowls and grease-stained plates. He wiped each surface in silence.

As he lifted one plate, something caught his eye.

A strip of cooked meat.
Cold.
Forgotten.

His stomach clenched painfully.

For a moment, he stared at it.

Then he ate it.

Quickly. Without chewing. Without thinking.

The taste barely registered—only the ache in his belly easing, just a little.

He finished cleaning and left no trace behind.

The next morning, the courtyard was silent.

Too silent.

Rae Jin was dragged forward by the collar and thrown to his knees.

Instructor Shen Bao stood before him.

“Thief,” Shen Bao said.

Rae Jin lifted his eyes. “I didn’t steal—”

The slap came without warning.

His head snapped sideways. Blood filled his mouth.

“You ate clan food,” Shen Bao said coldly. “Food meant for disciples.”

“I cleaned—” Rae Jin tried.

Another strike sent him sprawling.

“Insolent,” Shen Bao continued. “An outsider who forgets his place.”

Han Wei stood nearby, arms folded, watching with thinly veiled satisfaction.

“No one is to help him,” Shen Bao declared. “Anyone who does will answer to me.”

Rae Jin bowed his head until it touched the stone.

This was how Lone Fang reminded the weak that survival was not a right, but a favor.

Later that day, Rae Jin went fishing.

Hunger gnawed at him as he stood by the riverbank, line cast into the cold water. His stomach twisted with every breath.

Footsteps crunched behind him.

Han Wei and two others approached, laughter sharp.

“Well, look at that,” Han Wei said. “The river rat still breathing.”

One of the boys spat near his feet. “Did your dead mother teach you that too?”

Rae Jin’s hand tightened around the line.

“Say that again,” he said quietly.

Han Wei smiled. “What? The truth?”

Rae Jin moved.

Fast.

The strike was clean.
Precise.

Han Wei hit the ground before he could scream.

Silence followed.

In that silence, something far more dangerous than anger took root.

The other boys stared in shock.

Rae Jin looked down at Han Wei once.

“Never speak of my mother again.”

That night, the fire came.

Rae Jin woke to heat.
To smoke.
To laughter outside his hut.

Flames climbed the walls faster than thought.

He snatched the book his mother had given him on his fifth birthday and fled, leaving everything else behind.

The roof collapsed as he burst through the back, skin burning, lungs screaming.

Snow melted against scorched flesh as he stumbled forward, vision blurring.

Three steps.
Four.

Then the river swallowed him.

The last thing he heard was laughter—and a voice saying he was finally finished.

The current carried away the last trace of the boy Lone Fang believed it had erased.