The cloth door shifted again.
Not from wind this time.
It was pushed—slowly, deliberately—like the person outside wanted Zehan to hear it.
Jun Zehan didn't move.
His back stayed against the wall. His breathing stayed light. The wooden club rested across his knees, angled so it could rise in one motion.
Zelin was half-awake beside him, eyes glassy with exhaustion, chewing the last of the stale bread like it was afraid to swallow.
Footsteps stopped right outside.
A man's voice came through, amused and cold.
"Open up."
Zehan stared at the cloth door.
He didn't answer.
A short pause. Then a low chuckle.
"You're pretending you can't hear me?"
The cloth was yanked aside.
Rain and lantern-light spilled in.
A man stepped into the shelter, broad-shouldered and thick through the neck, wearing a soaked leather coat and a belt heavy with pouches. His hair was tied back. A scar ran down his jaw like a mark of ownership. His eyes were sharp and mean, the kind that never looked away first.
Two others followed behind him.
One carried a hook-blade, rusted but sharp. The other had a nailed club that looked like it had cracked skulls before.
The leader's gaze swept the room once, then landed on Zehan.
He smiled.
Not friendly.
Satisfied.
"So you're the one."
Zehan's eyes didn't flicker. He didn't stand. He didn't shrink either.
The leader stepped closer, boots scraping wet stone. "I heard you broke three of my boys in the market."
Zehan's voice was calm. "They tried to take food."
The leader laughed like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Food? That crate of scraps?"
He leaned forward slightly, smile widening. "You think you can fight for scraps without paying?"
Zehan didn't answer.
The leader's gaze shifted to Zelin.
Zelin stiffened instantly.
The leader's smile sharpened. "Ah. You've got a little brother."
Zehan's grip tightened on the club.
The leader noticed the movement and chuckled again. "Relax. I'm not here to kill you."
He crouched slightly, lowering himself to Zehan's height, like a man speaking to a dog that might bite.
"I'm here to teach you how Broken Lantern Quarter works."
His voice turned soft, almost conversational.
"You're alive because I allow it. You eat because I don't feel like starving you. You sleep because I haven't decided to drag you out and sell you to the alleys."
He reached out and grabbed Zehan's chin, forcing his face up.
Zehan didn't flinch.
But his eyes hardened.
The leader's smile faded. "Look at you. Dead eyes. No fear. You think you're special."
His fingers tightened.
Zehan's body stayed still.
Inside, his mind was cold.
If I move too early, he'll pull Zelin in front of him.
If I wait too long, he'll do it anyway.
The leader released Zehan's chin and stood. "Here's the deal."
He pointed at the sack. "You give me the food."
Then he pointed at Zelin. "And you give me him."
Zelin's eyes widened.
Zehan's head lifted slightly.
The leader's voice was casual, like he was discussing prices. "A cute little one like that? Plenty of buyers. If he cries, we'll break his teeth. If he runs, we'll break his legs. Either way, he'll earn."
Zelin's breathing turned panicked.
Zehan stood.
Slowly.
The leader watched him, amused again. "That's right. Stand up. Show me what you did to my boys."
Zehan's voice was quiet.
"Say that again."
The leader tilted his head. "What?"
Zehan's eyes were flat.
"Say it again," he repeated. "About breaking his legs."
The leader grinned. "You want me to say it louder so he hears it?"
He reached out toward Zelin—
Zehan moved.
The wooden club rose in a blur.
Not a swing.
A strike.
The club cracked into the leader's wrist with a dry snap.
Bone broke.
The leader's hand jerked back violently, face twisting as pain finally hit him.
"What—!"
Zehan stepped in before the leader could shout.
His foot hooked behind the man's ankle.
His shoulder slammed into the leader's hip.
The leader went down hard, back striking stone.
Zehan didn't pause.
He brought the club down again—straight onto the leader's throat.
Not enough to crush it.
Enough to steal breath.
The leader gagged, eyes bulging, hands clawing.
The hook-blade thug lunged.
Zehan pivoted, body low. The hook-blade swept toward his ribs.
Zehan stepped inside the arc, club smashing down onto the thug's forearm.
Bone popped.
The hook-blade fell into the mud.
The second thug rushed in with the nailed club, swinging wide.
Zehan didn't retreat.
He surged forward, taking the hit on his shoulder.
Pain flared—sharp and immediate—but he didn't let it slow him.
He drove the wooden club into the thug's face.
Once.
Twice.
The thug stumbled backward, nose exploding into blood.
Zehan kicked his knee.
The thug collapsed, screaming.
The hook-blade thug tried to scramble for the weapon again.
Zehan stepped on his hand.
The thug howled.
Zehan struck his temple with the club.
The thug went limp.
Silence fell.
Only rain and ragged breathing.
The leader was still on the ground, choking, clutching his throat, eyes wide with disbelief.
He stared up at Zehan like he couldn't understand what kind of thing a five-year-old could be.
"You…" he rasped. "You little—"
Zehan crouched beside him.
He looked into the man's eyes.
There was no anger in Zehan's face.
No hatred.
Just cold calculation.
He will come back.
If not him, then someone above him.
If he lives, Zelin dies.
The leader's lips twitched, trying to form a smile even while choking. "You can't… you can't kill me…"
Zehan's voice was soft.
"Yes I can."
He lifted the club.
The leader's eyes widened.
Zehan brought it down.
Once.
The leader's skull cracked against the stone.
The body twitched, then went still.
Zelin let out a strangled sound behind Zehan, half-sob, half-gasp.
Zehan didn't look back.
He stared at the corpse.
He felt nothing.
Not because he was heartless.
Because his heart had already learned the rule of survival.
Kill first. Live longer.
Zehan stood.
The two thugs were alive, broken and moaning.
He didn't finish them.
Not out of mercy.
Because dead bodies drew attention, and attention drew knives.
He grabbed the sack, slung it over his shoulder, then pulled Zelin up with his free hand.
"Move," Zehan said.
Zelin stumbled. "B-brother… he's—"
"Move," Zehan repeated.
Zelin obeyed.
They slipped out into the rain.
The alley was colder than before. The lantern light felt weaker. The shadows felt thicker.
Zehan walked fast now, not running, not panicking—moving with purpose.
Zelin clung to his sleeve, shaking.
"Where are we going?" Zelin whispered.
Zehan didn't answer immediately.
Because he was listening.
Behind them, somewhere deeper in Broken Lantern Quarter, voices were rising.
Shouts.
Curses.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Too many.
Zehan's eyes narrowed.
So the leader wasn't alone. Of course he wasn't.
They turned a corner.
And stopped.
Men filled the street ahead.
Not boys this time.
Men with real weight in their shoulders. Men with scars that weren't from childhood fights. Men holding blades, clubs, iron chains.
At the front stood a bald man with a heavy jaw and a long knife hanging from his belt. His eyes were cold, his mouth expressionless.
Behind him were at least a dozen more.
Zehan felt Zelin freeze beside him.
The bald man looked down at Zehan, then glanced at Zelin.
Then he spoke, voice flat.
"You killed my little brother."
Zehan's grip tightened on the sack.
So that was it.
The leader had been someone's blood.
The bald man stepped forward slowly, rain sliding down his scalp like oil. "I heard you did it with a stick."
His gaze lowered to Zehan's hands.
Then back to Zehan's eyes.
"You're brave," the bald man said. "Or stupid."
He lifted a hand slightly.
The men behind him spread out, closing the street like a net.
Zehan's mind sharpened instantly.
Too many.
Even with skill, this body won't last.
I can break two. Maybe three.
Then they grab Zelin.
Zehan's eyes flicked left.
A narrow alley.
Too tight.
They'd catch him.
Right.
A wall.
No escape.
Zehan inhaled slowly.
His face remained calm, but inside, the thought was clear.
So this is where it ends.
Zelin's voice trembled. "Brother…"
Zehan shifted his stance, putting himself between Zelin and the men.
The bald man watched the movement and smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "Protect him. That means you'll suffer more when he screams."
He took another step forward.
Then stopped.
Because another sound entered the street.
Not footsteps running.
Not men shouting.
A slow, steady tap… tap… tap…
Like someone walking without urgency.
The men surrounding Zehan turned their heads.
A figure appeared at the edge of the street.
An old man, holding a simple umbrella.
Plain robes. Worn sandals. Calm eyes.
He didn't look like he belonged here.
Which meant he was dangerous.
The bald man frowned. "Old man. This is not your business."
The umbrella tilted slightly as the old man looked at the circle of thugs.
Then he looked at Zehan.
For a moment, his gaze lingered—on the child's stance, the way his shoulders were set, the way his eyes didn't waver even while surrounded.
Then the old man spoke, voice even.
"It became my business when you brought knives to a child."
The bald man's jaw tightened. "This child killed my brother."
The old man nodded once, as if acknowledging a fact.
"And your brother threatened his," the old man replied.
The bald man's eyes narrowed. "You know nothing."
The old man's expression didn't change.
"I know enough."
The bald man spat into the rain. "Move aside."
The old man didn't move.
The bald man's hand dropped.
The men surged forward.
Zehan tensed, ready to strike first—
But the old man's umbrella tapped the ground once.
A sound so small it shouldn't matter.
Yet the moment it landed—
The air crushed down.
Not like fear.
Not like intimidation.
Like the world itself had pressed a palm onto their spines.
Every thug froze.
Their knees bent.
Their bodies shook.
Some dropped their weapons without realizing it.
The bald man's eyes widened as his legs buckled. He tried to resist, veins bulging in his neck, but he sank to one knee like a man forced to kneel before a king.
Zehan's pupils tightened.
This… isn't human strength.
The old man walked forward through the circle of men like he was stepping through grass.
He stopped beside Zehan.
The pressure didn't touch Zehan.
It didn't touch Zelin.
Only the thugs.
The old man looked down at Zehan.
"You killed him," he said.
Zehan didn't deny it.
"Yes."
The old man nodded slightly, as if confirming something he already knew.
Then he turned his gaze to the bald man kneeling in the rain.
"You want revenge?" the old man asked.
The bald man gritted his teeth, eyes bloodshot. "Yes!"
The old man's voice stayed calm.
"Then you're a fool."
The bald man trembled. "What—"
The old man lifted his umbrella slightly and pointed the tip toward the bald man's throat.
A simple motion.
No effort.
No struggle.
A faint sound followed, like air splitting.
The bald man's eyes went blank.
He collapsed forward into the mud, throat opened so cleanly it looked unreal.
The men around him screamed.
Some tried to run.
They couldn't.
The pressure held them down like chains.
The old man looked at them once.
And the pressure vanished.
The street exploded into chaos.
Men scrambled away, crawling, stumbling, dragging each other through the rain, desperate to escape.
In seconds, the street was empty again.
Only rain remained.
Only mud.
Only the dead.
Zehan stood still.
Zelin was shaking violently now, face pale, eyes locked on the corpse.
The old man didn't look at the dead again.
He turned back to Zehan.
"My name is Ren," he said.
Zehan stared up at him, mind cold and sharp even while his body trembled from hunger and exhaustion.
"You're a cultivator," Zehan said.
Master Ren's eyes narrowed slightly, faint approval flickering.
"You can feel it."
Zehan didn't answer.
Because his mind was already moving again.
This is the ladder.
This is the difference.
This is power.
Master Ren's umbrella tilted, shielding both of them from the rain.
"Iron Step Hall," Master Ren said, voice calm. "If you stay in Broken Lantern Quarter, you will die. Or worse—you'll survive long enough to become a beast."
Zehan's eyes stayed steady.
"I already became one," Zehan said.
Master Ren studied him for a moment.
Then he spoke softly.
"No. Not yet."
He turned slightly, beginning to walk.
"Come," he said. "If you want to live as a man… follow me."
Zehan didn't move right away.
He looked down at Zelin.
The boy's hands were shaking, but he was alive.
Zehan's fingers tightened.
Then he stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
And in the rain-soaked streets of Broken Lantern Quarter, the beggar child walked behind a cultivator, leaving blood and poverty behind him.
Not because he was saved.
Because he had chosen the path.