The next day, the door to the hut opened not to the grey sliver of dawn, but to the full, pale light of mid-morning. Feng Yin stood there, her silhouette sharp and uncompromising. She held no bowl of gruel this time.
"The Elder is waiting," she said, her tone leaving no room for delay.
Meng Ru rose, his limbs still heavy but the dizziness gone. He followed her out of the hut and into the stark reality of Gu Moon Village. It was a place stripped of all artistry, built from mud-brick and grim necessity. Huts like his own were arranged in a rough circle around a larger, central building—the Elder's hall. The ground was trodden mud, and the air smelled of woodsmoke, livestock, and the ever-present dampness of the nearby forest.
Villagers moved with the same joyless efficiency as Feng Yin. They were thin, their faces etched with hardship, their eyes holding the weary, watchful look of those who live on the edge of a knife. They glanced at Meng Ru, a stranger, with open suspicion.
The Elder's hall was dark and smelled of dried herbs and old parchment. An old man sat behind a heavy wooden table, his back straight despite his age. This was the Gu Moon clan elder. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing. They were the eyes of a merchant who had spent a lifetime weighing the value of goods, and now, he was weighing Meng Ru.
"You have eaten our food. You have slept under our roof," the Elder began, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. "Show me your hands."
Meng Ru stepped forward and held them out. The Elder's gnarled fingers, surprisingly strong, gripped his wrists. He turned Meng Ru's hands over, examining the palms, the fingers, and the calluses—or lack thereof. He grunted, a noncommittal sound.
"Open your mouth."
Meng Ru obeyed. The Elder peered at his teeth, a clear indicator of age and health.
"He is young," the Elder declared to the room at large, though only Feng Yin was present. "But his hands are soft. He is no farmer, no hunter." He released Meng Ru and leaned back, his fingers steepling. "A body that can work is an asset. A mouth that only eats is a stone in the river, sinking the boat. For now, you are a stone."
Meng Ru's jaw tightened, but he remained silent. Arguing would be a waste of breath, an expenditure with no return.
"You will work," the Elder continued, his gaze unwavering. "You will haul water, chop wood, and mend the fences. You will repay the debt of your life. Feng Yin will oversee your labor."
He made a dismissive gesture. The judgment was over.
As they stepped back into the pale light, Feng Yin spoke, her voice low. "The woodpile is by the eastern fence. The axe is dull. Do not break it."
"Why are you helping me?" Meng Ru asked, his voice raspy.
Feng Yin stopped and turned to face him, her expression a mixture of scorn and something else—a flicker of shared desperation. "Do not mistake this for kindness. The Awakening Ceremony is in one month. I have spent my life preparing for it. It is my only chance to escape this…." She gestured vaguely at the mud and squalor of the village.
"Every youth our age participates. You will be there too. The Elder cannot deny you that. But you are weak. If you die during the trials, it reflects poorly on our generation. Your survival is a matter of clan resources. My 'help,'" she said, spitting the word out, "is merely ensuring a clan asset is not entirely worthless."
She was not helping him; she was mitigating a potential loss. Their bond was not of fellowship but of a shared, brutal pragmatism. It was a bond that could shift or shatter the moment the scales of benefit tipped.
"If you awaken an aperture," she continued, her eyes fixed on something far away, "you might have value. If not, you will spend the rest of your short life hauling wood until a beast from the forest or a sickness from the swamps claims you. That is the way of things."
She left him then, pointing toward a massive pile of logs near the village's crude palisade. Meng Ru found the axe. It was as she'd said—poorly made, its edge chipped and dull. He lifted it, the unfamiliar weight straining his arms.
He brought the axe down. The impact jarred his entire body, and only a pathetic sliver of wood chipped away from the log. His hands stung, and his muscles screamed in protest.
He paused, breathing heavily, and looked at his soft, unmarked hands. They were the hands of a scholar, not a laborer. He did not know how he knew this, but the certainty was there. That life was gone.
This was his reality now. The ache in his back, the sting in his palms, the cold, calculating eyes of the villagers. And the single, gleaming hope on the horizon: the Awakening Ceremony. It was not just a chance for power. It was a chance to rewrite his own ledger.
With a grunt, Meng Ru lifted the axe again. This time, he adjusted his grip, his stance, and his breathing. He focused his intent, channeling all his will into the swing.
Thud.
The sound was still dull, the result still meager. But it was a start. One by one, he would pay his debts. And then, he would start collecting his own.