The servants' quarter unfolded like a dream, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked palace Song had escaped.
Its courtyards, nestled under towering trees with dense, sprawling canopies, exuded a quiet charm.
The dark stone path snaked between them, smooth and tightly fitted, winding like a serpent through the tranquil enclave.
Song followed Rill, his white clothes crisp against his skin, his Tattoo of Dominion pulsing faintly beneath its bandage.
The air was warm, scented with moss and polished wood, a balm to his scarred soul.
No one crossed their path, the quarter eerily silent.
"Most are working," Rill explained, her voice bright.
"Day servants are out, and night workers are sleeping."
Song nodded, his eyes tracing the trees' thick trunks, their branches fanning out like bamboo umbrellas, shielding the courtyards from the sun.
They stretched ten meters high, their leaves rustling softly, a whisper of peace he'd never known.
After the stench of slave pens, the cruelty of Grue's whip, and the terror of the obsidian platform, this place felt like a sanctuary.
Is this real? he thought, his heart aching with unfamiliar hope.
Rill slowed her pace, her qipao swaying as she gestured to the surroundings.
"Look around, Song," she said, her smile warm.
"This is Dark Star City's heart. You could build a life here."
Her enthusiasm was infectious, but Song caught the sadness in her eyes, a fleeting shadow she tried to hide.
She's trying to convince me, he realized, his instincts sharp from years of survival.
But why does she care so much?
The path led past stone statues of mythical beasts—coiled dragons, winged tigers, serpents with gleaming eyes.
Carved monuments of ancient masters stood among them, their faces weathered but proud, their weapons raised in eternal defiance.
Song's gaze lingered on a statue of a robed warrior, its spear pointed skyward, its aura almost tangible.
His tattoo pulsed, a faint warmth stirring, as if the statue recognized him.
What is this place? he thought, unease creeping in.
The quarter was beautiful, but its serenity hid something deeper, a power tied to the runes he'd seen in the palace.
They crossed a small bridge, its wooden canopy adorned with sloping tiles, its railings carved with intricate vines.
Below, a crystal-clear stream burbled, its artificial flow sparkling in the sunlight.
Song paused, his breath catching at the sight.
The slave pens had been a hell of dust and despair, but this—this was a world he'd never dared imagine.
"It's beautiful," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Rill beamed, her eyes sparkling.
"See? This is why you should stay."
Song's chest tightened, a mix of awe and skepticism.
His life had taught him that beauty often masked danger.
The Fruit of Raging Fire had changed him, but the scars of his past—hunger, thirst, the lash—remained.
He closed his eyes, letting the stream's gentle sound wash over him.
For the first time, he felt something new—peace, fragile but real.
Is this what it means to be free? he wondered, his mind drifting to his few moments of joy.
Training his Tattoo of Dominion, coaxing faint sparks of power, had been his only triumphs, stolen in the shadows of slavery.
Rill's voice broke his reverie.
"Song?" she called, a few steps ahead, her tone curious.
He opened his eyes, but the world tilted, a wave of dizziness crashing over him.
His vision blurred, his legs buckling as memories of the obsidian platform flooded back—the fox-beings, the void, the searing pain of the Fruit.
He swayed, his tattoo burning, and clenched his teeth, fighting to stay upright.
Rill rushed to him, her hands gripping his arms.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice laced with worry.
Her touch was warm, grounding, pulling him back from the edge.
Song blinked, his vision clearing, sweat beading on his brow.
He wiped it with his sleeve, his breath ragged.
"Thanks," he croaked, meeting her concerned gaze.
Rill's eyes searched his, her grip firm.
"Let's move," she said softly.
"No need to stand here where everyone can see."
She took his hand, her palm soft but strong, and led him forward.
The contact jolted him, easing the lingering haze.
That wasn't just exhaustion, he thought, his heart racing.
The ritual… the Fruit… it's still affecting me.
He glanced at his bandaged arm, the tattoo's warmth a constant reminder.
I need to get stronger. I can't let this happen again.
Rill's cheeks flushed as she realized she was still holding his hand.
She released him abruptly, her fingers fidgeting with her qipao's collar.
Her lips parted, but no words came, her usual confidence replaced by awkwardness.
Song, sensing her discomfort, offered a small smile.
"Rill, thank you," he said, clearing his throat.
"I don't know what came over me. Can we… forget that happened and keep going?"
Relief washed over her face.
"Yes, let's go," she said, her smile returning, though a hint of embarrassment lingered.
They resumed their walk, the path curving through another courtyard.
The Magistrate's building loomed ahead, a palace of dark stone and green-tiled roofs, its massive columns carved with coiling vines.
Its terracotta walls gleamed, etched with intricate patterns, its windows framed by slanted latticework.
Song's breath caught, the structure rivaling the Twilight Lord's underground palace, though its warmth stood in stark contrast to that cold, bloodstained hall.
"It's incredible," he said, his voice tinged with awe.
Rill nodded, her pride evident.
"The Magistrate oversees the quarter. It's always busy, but we're here at a quiet time."
"Stick with me, or you'll get lost inside."
They entered, the air cool and heavy with the scent of ink and parchment.
The interior was a labyrinth of corridors, doors, and bustling rooms.
Servants hurried past, their arms laden with scrolls or tools, their faces etched with purpose.
Rill navigated with ease, her steps confident, while Song trailed behind, his senses overwhelmed.
This is my new world, he thought, both daunted and determined.
They stopped before a gold-trimmed door, its surface gleaming under the torchlight.
"This is it," Rill said, her smile encouraging.
"Registration won't take long. I'll wait here."
She gestured to a stone bench nearby and sat, her qipao pooling around her.
Song hesitated, a pang of unease hitting him.
Without Rill's cheerful presence, the door felt cold, forbidding.
Get it together, he told himself, squaring his shoulders.
He took a deep breath and pushed the door open, stepping into the unknown.
The room beyond reeked of ancient must, like a desert tent used for centuries.
Towering shelves lined the walls, crammed with gray scrolls, their edges frayed with age.
The air was thick, the silence broken only by the scratch of pens and the shuffle of feet.
Song's eyes adjusted to the dim light, spotting several elderly clerks at small desks, their hands flying over scrolls.
They darted between desks, exchanging papers with frantic energy, their movements almost comical.
Song bit back a laugh, the absurdity a brief respite from his nerves.
"Good day, elders," he said, bowing respectfully.
The clerks barely glanced up, save for one, a wiry man with a pinched face.
"Registration?" he asked, his tone brisk, his pen poised over a scroll.
"Yes," Song replied, nodding.
The elder gestured to a spot before his desk.
"Come."
Song approached, his heart pounding, the weight of this moment sinking in.
This was his first step in a new life—or a new cage.
To be continued…