The slums were not merely a place of poverty; they were a complex ecosystem governed by a hierarchy of violence. To the outside world, the district was a blur of filth. But it was a map of territories, resource lines, and blood-debts.
The Power Structure of the Depths
The underworld of the city was carved into three distinct territories, each ruled by a gang that acted as a dark mirror to the Great Clans above.
The Iron Hook Syndicate: The largest and most brutal. They controlled the labor at the old quarry and the waste-disposal routes. They were a blunt instrument, backed secretly by the Black Tiger Clan, a mid-tier sect that used the syndicate to "disappear" rivals and harvest low-level labor.
The Silk Snakes: A subtle, more vicious group that handled the flow of illicit drugs and information. They were rumored to be the "cleaners" for the Tang Clan—the very family that had dismantled Sima Yeon's life.
The Grey Wolves: The group Sima Yeon had his eyes on. They were the scavengers, the ones who controlled the distribution of scraps, smuggled grain, and the "protection" of the market stalls. They were independent, backed by no one but their own ruthlessness.
The Currency of Violence
In the slums, power was measured in Third-Rate Martial Arts. These were not the refined, elegant techniques of the Great Academies. They were "Mud-Sect" arts—scraps of manuals stolen from dead guards, bastardized versions of foundational techniques, or scrolls bought from black-market merchants.
These gangsters fought with a "dog-eat-dog" style. They didn't aim for grace; they aimed for the throat. Their cultivation was jagged and unstable, but in a world of civilians, it made them gods. They fought over Resource Nodes: a clean well, a shipment of spoiled grain that could be fermented, or the right to tax a specific alleyway.
The Target
For three months, Yeon had tracked the movements of Han Jo, the right-hand man of the Grey Wolves' leader. Han Jo was the "Sword of the Pack"—a man who possessed a shred of genuine talent but lacked the political mind to protect himself.
Yeon knew that a war was brewing. The Iron Hook Syndicate wanted the Grey Wolves' market territory. More importantly, he knew the exact night the ambush would happen. He had watched the Iron Hook scouts marking the walls near the "Narrows"—a bottleneck in the slum's layout.
The night was thick with the scent of wet soot.
Han Jo walked through the Narrows, his hand resting on the hilt of a chipped broadsword. He was accompanied by only two men. They were confident—a fatal mistake in a place like this.
From the shadows of a collapsed roof, Yeon watched. He didn't look like a noble anymore. His hair was matted, his skin darkened by soot, and his eyes were cold as flint. He held a simple, sharpened iron rod—a tool of necessity.
Suddenly, the silence shattered.
Six men from the Iron Hook Syndicate dropped from the balconies. They moved with the frantic, explosive energy of the Crushing Rock Technique—a low-level art that prioritized raw power over form.
"Ambush!" Han Jo roared, drawing his blade.
The clash was ugly. Blood sprayed against the damp walls. Han Jo was a decent fighter, his movements showing the traces of a legitimate foundational style, but he was outnumbered and outmaneuvered. One of his men went down with a slit throat. A hook-blade caught Han Jo in the shoulder, spinning him around.
The Syndicate leader, a scarred man with a malicious grin, raised a heavy cleaver for the killing blow. "The Wolves lose their fangs tonight!"
He never swung.
A shadow detached itself from the wall. There was no battle cry. There was no grand display of Qi.
Yeon moved with the efficiency of an assassin. He didn't target the cleaver; he targeted the lead attacker's balance. He thrust the iron rod into the man's lead knee with a sickening crack, then used the momentum to drive a palm into the man's throat.
The Syndicate leader collapsed, clutching his neck, his eyes bulging in confusion. He hadn't seen the attack coming because Yeon had moved without "intent"—a trick of the mind he had mastered during his months of silent observation.
Yeon didn't stop. He stepped into the space between Han Jo and the remaining attackers. He moved like smoke, parrying a blade with the iron rod and counter-striking with the cold logic of a man who knew exactly where the human body was most fragile.
In less than a minute, three men lay screaming in the mud, and the rest had fled into the dark, terrified by the "ghost" that had appeared from the shadows.
Han Jo slumped against the wall, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked up at his savior—a dirty, silent man who looked like he had crawled out of the earth itself.
"Who... who are you?" Han Jo wheezed. "You're no beggar."
Yeon wiped the blood from his iron rod on a piece of discarded cloth. He didn't look back at the bodies. He didn't show pride. His face was a mask of perfect indifference—difficult to read, impossible to track.
"My name is Baek," Yeon lied. It was a common name, a white slate. "I have no home. I have no clan. I only have a desire to eat."
He chose his words carefully. In the world, you didn't ask for a favor; you showed your value.
Han Jo looked at the precision of the strikes Yeon had landed. He saw a weapon that could be sharpened. "You saved my life, Baek. The Grey Wolves don't forget a debt. If you've got no place to go, come with me. We need men who don't blink when the steel comes out."
Yeon bowed his head slightly, the shadows hiding the cold, calculating light in his eyes.
Step one was complete. He was no longer Sima Yeon, the tragic heir. He was Baek, a nameless soldier in a gutter-war. From within the Grey Wolves, he would gain access to their manuals, their secrets, and their connections.
He would learn their "third-rate" arts and refine them with the precision of a heir of a Supreme Clan. He would build his foundation in the dark, using the blood of gangsters to fuel his rise.
"Lead the way," Yeon said quietly.
The hunt had officially begun.