The night after the Patriarch's humiliating return was a turning point. The grand dramas of the clan felt distant, a game for gods and monsters. Yang Kai's world had shrunk to the size of his own two hands and the desperate need to fill them. He would not just study. He would create.
He spent the entire night in the abandoned bathhouse, a ghost performing a secret ritual. His shoulders ached with the sharp, coiling language of the Silent Coil Scripture as he crushed the Ironscales. His hands were stained with the ugly, grey paste he made from dust and tallow.
By the time the first pale light of dawn touched the sky, his first batch was complete. He now had a product. And the terrifying thought immediately followed:
He now had a product. He had no customers.
He couldn't sell it within the clan; that would invite questions he couldn't answer. He had to return to the Dregs. He thought of the town's layout, a map he had pieced together from journals and his own furtive observations. Fallingstar was a town of clear, brutal hierarchy. The Governor's Mansion sat on its northern rise, looking down on all. The great clans held their sprawling estates like kingdoms unto themselves—the hunter Feng clan to the west with their access to the mountain, the smithing Tie clan to the south by the industrial forges, and his own decaying Yang clan in the southeastern corner.
Below them all, pressed against the great southern town wall like a dirty smear, were the Dregs. To sell his wares, he had to go to the heart of its commerce of violence.
The Sparring Pit. The Grinder.
He waited until the sun was a dying ember on the horizon, a time when the day-laborers and clanless mercenaries gathered to settle scores or earn coin through bloody, weaponless bouts. He carried five small, crudely-made clay pots of his paste in a cloth sack, the coarse fabric a rough comfort against his skin.
He slipped from the Yang estate, a ghost in borrowed rags, and plunged into the chaotic maze of the Dregs.
The scent of spiced plum wine did little to soothe the coiled serpent of fury in Madam Liu's gut. She sat in her chambers, the lanterns casting long shadows, listening to the silence of a house that felt emptier by the day.
The servants had reported it at dusk. Her son, her useless, crippled son, had once again disguised himself in commoner's rags and slipped out of the estate.
Again.
The first time, she had been gripped by a mother's terror—a fear that he would be found dead in a ditch, a final shame upon her house. Now, that fear had curdled into a cold, possessive rage. This was not a random, foolish wandering. This was purposeful.
Where does he go? What pathetic little secrets does he think he can keep from me?
She placed her wine cup down, the soft click loud in the quiet room. Her husband was a fool who saw a lost boy. She saw a snake, testing the edges of its cage, and she would not have it. He was her son. His secrets were her secrets. His shame was her shame. His defiance was an intolerable insult.
She would wait for his return. And this time, there would be no more watching from the shadows. It was time to put a leash on this new, strange creature he had become. It was time to remind him who he belonged to.
Yang Kai moved through the Dregs, the straw hat pulled low, his five crude clay pots clinking softly in his sack. The district was a maze of mud-slicked alleys and leaning, makeshift shacks. The air was thick with the smell of cheap wine, unwashed bodies, and despair. He reached his destination.
The Grinder was not just a pit; it was the heart of the Dregs, a permanent, ugly feature carved into the community's soul. It was a sunken, circular arena of packed, blood-stained earth, about twenty paces across. Tiered, makeshift benches, fashioned from splintered planks and stacked stones, rose on one side, allowing onlookers to watch the brutal commerce below. A wiry man with quick eyes stood at a rickety table near the entrance, a bookie taking bets and paying out winnings.
The air was thick with a raw, masculine energy, a chorus of roars, insults, and the wet, percussive thud of fist on flesh. This was where the clanless settled scores, earned coin, and beat their frustrations out on one another.
Yang Kai stood at the periphery, a ghost in the raucous crowd. His heart hammered against his ribs. These were violent men. He was a soft boy with a bag full of foul-smelling mud.
He watched a bout end. The loser was dragged from the pit, his face a mask of blood, his knuckles split open and raw. The man cursed, spitting a bloody tooth onto the ground.
This was his chance.
He took a breath and walked towards the injured fighter. The man glared at him, his eyes filled with the angry humiliation of defeat.
"What do you want, clan pup?" the man growled. "Come to laugh?"
Yang Kai shook his head, his throat dry. He knelt and opened his sack, pulling out one of the pots. He offered it to the man. "This... can help."
The fighter stared at the ugly pot, then back at Yang Kai's clean, unscarred face. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Help? What does a pampered little master like you know about helping?"
A few of the other men nearby turned, their interest piqued by the strange interaction.
Yang Kai opened the pot. The foul, greasy smell made the fighter recoil slightly. "It is a paste," Yang Kai said, his voice quiet but steady. "Meteoric Carapace Paste. It protects the skin. Makes it tougher."
The laughter grew louder. "He's selling mud!" someone shouted.
Yang Kai's face burned. His fear was a cold, coiling thing in his stomach. He was about to retreat when he met the defeated fighter's eyes. He saw the pain there. The man's hands were his livelihood. An injury meant he couldn't fight. Couldn't work. Couldn't eat.
"Try it," Yang Kai said, his voice gaining a desperate urgency. "Just a little. It will not heal you. But tomorrow... it might keep your skin from breaking again."
Renco stared at the pot, then at the earnest, desperate look on the clan pup's face. He snatched it, more out of irritation than anything else. He dipped a bloody finger into the grey paste. It was gritty and cool. He sullenly began to rub it over his raw knuckles.
He sat on a splintered bench, watching the next bout begin. After a few minutes, a strange sensation pulled his attention. The paste was drying, forming a hard, shell-like coating over his split skin. He tapped his knuckles against the bench. The impact felt dull, distant, as if he were tapping a rock instead of his own flesh.
It didn't heal the pain, but it felt… tough. He thought about the five prize-jades he'd lost today. He thought about the twenty he might lose over the next week waiting for his hands to heal. He looked back towards the shadows where the strange boy had been. Five jades for a pot of this stinking mud? It was robbery. But it was cheaper than starving.
Yang Kai stayed in the shadows, his nerves stretched taut. As the crowd began to thin, the wiry man who collected the bets approached his hiding spot.
"You the one selling the 'Ironscale' mud?" the man asked, his voice low and professional.
Yang Kai nodded, his heart leaping into his throat.
"Renco says it feels like a rock hardening on his knuckles," the man said. "He wants another pot. And Bor, the big man with the broken nose, he wants one too." The man's eyes were sharp, appraising. "How much?"
"Five Low-Grade Star-Jades," Yang Kai blurted out.
The man's eyebrow shot up. "Five jades? For a pot of mud? You're either brave or stupid, pup." He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "But a fighter who misses a week's worth of prize money loses more than five jades. Fine."
The man tossed a small, worn pouch to Yang Kai. "That's ten jades. For Renco and Bor. Give me two pots."
The transaction was over in a second. Ten Low-Grade Star-Jades. The weight of the stones in his hand was an electric thrill. It was real. He had made something. He had sold it.
He left the Grinder, his mind buzzing, feeling a surge of confidence so profound it was almost dizzying. He was so lost in his own small triumph that he didn't notice the servant waiting for him in the shadows of his courtyard until he was almost upon her.
She bowed her head low. "Second Young Master. The Second Mistress… she requires your presence. Immediately."
The cold dread that washed over him was instant, extinguishing the warm glow of his success like a bucket of ice water.
He followed the servant to the Second House, his mind a blank slate of terror. He was led into his mother's private sitting room. She was alone, kneeling at a low table, a cup of steaming tea before her. The anger radiating from her was a palpable force in the room.
As she turned her head, the movement was slow, deliberate. The light of the lanterns caught the sharp, elegant line of her jaw and the smoldering ember of her eyes. She wore a simple, elegant robe of deep crimson silk that did little to hide the proud, magnificent swell of her bust or the way the fabric draped perfectly over the curve of her hip as she shifted her weight.
She stared into her tea. "Where have you been?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"I... was walking, Mother," he lied.
"Walking," she repeated, the word a silken mockery. She finally lifted her gaze. "You have been 'walking' a great deal lately, haven't you? Disappearing for hours. You smell of sweat and dirt." She set the cup down with a soft click.
"The Tie Clan's whelp will be arriving in two days, along with her father. A formal reception will be held. As the son of the Second House, your attendance is required."
He stared at her, confused.
"You will be there," she continued, her voice as cold as iron. "You will stand in the background. You will be silent. You will be invisible. And you will listen." She leaned forward slightly, the movement causing the crimson silk to pull taut across her shoulders. "You will listen to every word spoken between my husband and the Patriarch. Between the First Mistress and that Tie woman. You will tell me everything they say. You will tell me how they say it. You will be my eyes and my ears."
She looked at him then, and he saw no maternal affection. Only the cold, calculating gaze of a woman pushed to the edge, a mother whose fear for her own future had twisted into a terrifying, possessive resolve.
"You have been so keen to wander the shadows of this clan, my son," she whispered, her words a chilling promise. "Now, you will do it for me."
[Cycle of the Azure Emperor, Year 3473, 6th Moon, 4th Day]