The world above collides with the world below.
The scent of rot never left the pits. It clung to the damp stone like regret, and every breath reminded Muyeon of what he had become—a shadow beneath a kingdom that fed off his suffering.
Days bled into each other. Swords and scrolls, fists and forgotten names. That morning, Muyeon had practiced until his palms tore open. He wrapped them in rags. No complaints. No tears.
But something changed in the wind.
From the stairway that led from the imperial palace down into the depths came the sound of drums. Not the warning of war. These drums were light, almost festive—mockery made music. Then came laughter—arrogant and gilded in perfume.
Muyeon and the others looked up.
Silken boots stepped into the mud.
At the top of the slope, surrounded by silk-robed guards and sneering eunuchs, stood a boy not much older than Muyeon. Prince Shi Yulian—the favored bastard of King Shi Liansheng.
His face was unnaturally smooth, powdered pale, with red lines under his eyes and lips like a painted doll. A beautiful serpent.
The pit children shrank away instinctively. They'd seen Yulian before—once a year, the prince descended into the pits for "sport." But it had been three years since his last visit. Some had dared hope he'd forgotten them.
He hadn't.
"Do they remember me, I wonder?" Yulian mused aloud, holding a fan decorated with golden cranes. "Have the rats become mice? Or wolves?"
He pointed to a pit guard. "You. Choose two. I want a fight."
Without hesitation, the guard pulled two trembling boys into the ring of torches. They looked no older than ten. One had a broken foot. The other clutched his stomach.
The guards tossed them sticks. Not swords. Not even real weapons.
"Go on," Yulian sang. "Dance for me. If you want food. Or do you want to starve again?"
Muyeon watched from the shadows, fingers curling around a stone.
The boys hesitated. Then lunged. Wild. Desperate. The fight was clumsy and short. One ended up on the ground, bleeding from a cracked skull. The other stood, shivering, realizing what he had done.
Yulian clapped. "Exquisite! Even beasts crave applause."
Then his eyes found Ara.
She was half-hidden behind a pillar, clutching a worn cloth. Her scarred face twisted in fear as Yulian stepped closer.
"Well, well… What do we have here?" he mused. "Mute, isn't she?"
A eunuch whispered into his ear. Yulian nodded. "Ah yes. The girl who tried to bite off a steward's ear. Hilarious."
He leaned down. "Dance for me, little shadow."
She didn't move.
"Dance," he repeated, voice sharpening. "Or I'll pluck out your other eye."
Ara flinched. Her body shook. Her hands moved to her waist, hesitating—humiliation rising.
That's when Muyeon stepped forward.
No sound. No announcement. Just the soft squelch of his bare feet in the mud.
The guards turned sharply, spears crossing toward him. Ara's eyes widened.
Yulian raised an eyebrow. "Who is this mud ghost?"
Muyeon said nothing. His eyes met the prince's. Cold. Unblinking.
Yulian stared back, fan still in hand. "Do you speak?"
Still silence.
He turned to one of the guards. "Cut off his ear."
Dowon's voice rang out suddenly, sharp as a sword drawn in court.
> "A prince's glory is measured not by the number of cowards he crushes, but by the bravery he inspires."
Everyone turned.
Yook Dowon stood with his walking stick planted in the earth, robes tattered, face unreadable.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," he said with mock respect, "but is it not shameful to demand dances from the maimed? Or blood from the broken?"
Yulian's smile thinned. "You're still alive, old worm?"
Dowon chuckled. "Some stains are hard to scrub, even for tyrants."
There was a tense silence. Then Yulian stepped back.
"How amusing," he said. "Very well. I won't punish the rat. Not today."
He pointed at Muyeon.
"But I remember your eyes now, boy."
His gaze shifted to Dowon. "And yours will soon rot out of your skull. Enjoy your circus while it lasts."
With a wave of his fan, the prince turned and strode out. The guards followed. The torches dimmed. The drums faded.
Only silence remained.
Muyeon looked down at Ara, who was trembling.
He reached down, picked up the dropped cloth she'd clung to, and placed it in her hand gently.
No words.
She looked up, and for the first time, smiled.
Later that night, Muyeon sat alone near the stone wall where he'd carved his mother's name.
His fingers ached.
But he picked up a new shard, and carved one more.
Ara.
He looked up at the stars barely visible through the grate high above and whispered:
> "Let memory be our rebellion."
From the shadows, So Geomryu watched with crossed arms.
Dowon joined him quietly.
"You saw it, didn't you?" the scholar said.
Geomryu grunted. "He didn't flinch. Not even once."
Dowon smiled faintly. "It begins."
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