The registration room was a crypt of knowledge, its shelves groaning under the weight of countless gray scrolls.
The air was stale, thick with the scent of dust and ink, the silence punctuated by the frantic scratching of pens.
Song stood before the elder's desk, his heart pounding, his Tattoo of Dominion pulsing beneath its bandage.
The elder, a wiry man with sharp eyes, sized him up, his expression a mask of indifference.
The other clerks bustled around their desks, darting between stacks of scrolls, their movements a chaotic dance of urgency.
Song's gaze flicked to them, their frenetic energy almost amusing, but the elder's voice snapped him back.
"Name, age, strength?" the elder asked, his glowing quill hovering over a fresh scroll.
"Song," he replied, his voice steady.
"Age unknown, likely seventeen. First Lord."
The elder's brows shot up, his gaze dropping to Song's arm, hidden beneath his sleeve.
"One stripe?" he said, disbelief coloring his tone.
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of contempt crossing his face before he masked it.
Song's jaw tightened, the familiar sting of dismissal cutting deep.
Same as always, he thought, his defiance flaring.
They see weakness and nothing else.
The elder scribbled something, his quill moving with practiced precision.
"List your strongest skills," he said, not looking up.
Song cleared his throat, his mind racing.
Skills? His life as a slave had taught him survival, not trades.
"Literacy, diligence, attentiveness," he said, hoping they'd suffice.
The elder's gaze snapped up, his contempt now unmistakable.
"That's it?" he said, a mocking edge to his voice.
"No hunting, no combat, no trade?"
Song's cheeks burned, but he held his ground.
"No, elder," he said, shaking his head.
The elder's lips curled, his quill scratching furiously.
"Where did you learn to read?" he asked, his tone sharp.
"How deep is your knowledge?"
Song hesitated, the question a knife to his fractured past.
"I… don't know, elder," he said, his voice faltering.
"I lost my memories. My past is a mystery to me."
The elder's eyes narrowed, suspicion replacing contempt.
"No memories?" he said, his voice laced with doubt.
He leaned back, his gaze boring into Song, as if searching for a lie.
Song stood firm, his heart racing, but he offered no defense.
What could he say? The truth was all he had, fragmented as it was.
The elder snorted, his quill moving again.
He muttered under his breath, his lips barely moving, his expression one of puzzled irritation.
Song caught fragments—no skills, no history, useless—each word a barb in his pride.
They don't know me, he thought, his fists clenching.
The Fruit of Raging Fire changed me. I'm more than this.
The elder paused, his gaze returning to Song.
"Without references, I won't vouch for your literacy," he said, his tone final.
"You can take an exam here to prove it, but for now, it's excluded."
He tapped the scroll, his eyes cold.
"Your lack of practical skills and abysmal strength—worst among your peers—limits your options."
"I strongly recommend you stick to the professions listed in this scroll."
He shook the scroll, a copy materializing in a flash of light.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent it to Song, who caught it, his hands trembling.
"These are your only viable paths," the elder continued.
"Attempt others, and you'll likely be rejected. Understood?"
"Yes, elder," Song said, his voice tight, anger simmering beneath his calm.
What else could he do but agree?
The elder nodded, satisfied, and turned away.
"That's all," he said, his tone dismissive.
"You're free to go."
He shuffled toward a nearby shelf, his irritation palpable.
Song bowed, first to him, then to the other clerks, who ignored him.
"Thank you, elders," he said, his voice steady despite the storm within.
He turned and walked out, the gold-trimmed door creaking shut behind him.
Outside, Rill sat on the stone bench, her smile brightening as she saw him.
"All done?" she asked, standing.
Song nodded, his grip tightening on the scroll.
He unrolled it, his eyes scanning the short list of professions.
His breath caught, rage and disbelief crashing over him.
Waste Collector
Stable Cleaner
Latrine Scrubber
Is this a joke? he thought, his hands shaking as he reread the list.
The elder's contempt, the clans' dismissal of slaves as "resources," the mocking brevity of the list—it was a slap to his face, a reminder of his place in their eyes.
Rill peered over his shoulder, her smile fading.
"Oh," she said, her voice soft.
"That's… not ideal."
Song's jaw clenched, his tattoo pulsing with a fiery heat.
They think I'm nothing, he thought, his defiance roaring.
The Fruit gave me potential. I'll show them.
He remembered the old man's words—break the chains of this world.
This list was a chain, a cage disguised as opportunity.
He wouldn't accept it.
Rill touched his arm, her expression concerned.
"Song, it's just a start," she said, her voice gentle.
"Work hard, earn merits, and you'll get better tasks."
Song met her gaze, her kindness a lifeline in his anger.
But he saw something else in her eyes—pity, perhaps, or resignation.
She's trapped here too, he realized, his heart sinking.
The servants' quarter was no sanctuary, just a prettier cage.
"I'll do what I must," he said, his voice low, his resolve hardening.
"But I won't stay at the bottom."
Rill's smile returned, though it was tinged with sadness.
"That's the spirit," she said, her tone encouraging.
"Come on, let's get you settled."
As they left the Magistrate, Song's tattoo pulsed again, stronger now.
The courtyard's ancient stone caught his eye, its runes glowing faintly, invisible to Rill.
A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, the same cloaked figure he'd seen before, its presence chilling.
His hand twitched, instinct urging him to fight, but the figure vanished, leaving only a whisper of danger.
The quarter's peace was a lie, and Song's new life was a battlefield.
His tattoo burned, a rune flickering on its surface, a call to a destiny he didn't yet understand.
What are you hiding? he thought, his eyes narrowing.
The answer lay ahead, in the martial library, the runes, or the shadows watching him.
He'd find it, no matter the cost.
To be continued…