The chaos faded, but the aftermath lingered.
Blood stained the floor. Shards of glass sparkled like cursed snow. And in the center, a body lay still — pierced by the same dagger meant for him.
Zhang staggered back, breath ragged. Then—
Iron boots.
Guards burst into the room, weapons drawn. One looked at the corpse, then at the wide-eyed boy trembling with blood on his hands.
"He's the one," a neighbor muttered behind them.
The guards seized him roughly, twisting his arms behind his back and binding them with rough cord. He didn't even fight. His mind was still spinning.
As they dragged him through the dim alleys, people stared from candlelit windows.
Just before they reached the watchtower, a figure stood in the shadows. Hooded. Still. Watching.
Their eyes met.
Sharp. Knowing.
Then the figure turned and walked away without a word.
---
The watchhouse was colder than the room he'd woken up in. Stone walls. Rusted iron bars. A flickering torch barely lit the chamber.
"Name?" barked the captain.
He hesitated. His real name... no. That person was gone.
He remembered a character — his favorite from the life he had lost.
He raised his head.
"Coyote Heraclides."
"Clan?"
"None."
"Village? Lineage? Trade?"
Silence.
They looked at one another grimly.
> "No roots. No past. No one to speak for him."
"Could be a drifter. Could be a shapeshifter. Could be worse."
With no witnesses in his defense and no trace of history, they locked him in a cell.
---
Night fell. Rats scurried beneath the straw. Somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolled the hour.
And then — footsteps. The sound of keys.
A cloaked man stood before his cell. The guards opened the gate without question. Gold exchanged hands. Papers were passed.
"You've been claimed," one guard muttered.
"By who?" Coyote asked.
The cloaked man's face was hidden in shadow.
He simply replied,
"A catalyst that too of your age is a rare sight".