Rain drummed against the patched roof, the only music in the world as Shen Zhen floated in the limbo between waking and the black abyss. He drifted from visions of red and gold—his mother's gentle hand, a father's shadow, both half-remembered as if pressed into his soul by some ancient seal—his body anchored only by the dull drumbeat of bruises and ache.
He became aware of something warm in his chest. It was not pain, not exactly, but an ember that glowed at the edge of death—a flicker stubborn as hope in a storm. The echo of the alley fight, guards' boots, and cruel laughter faded beneath it, pushed aside by something new and wild and unknown.
A snore rattled the air. The scent of smoked yam and sweat dragged him fully awake. Shen Zhen's eyelids flickered open and he found himself staring at a lopsided ceiling patched with oilcloth and rags. Rainwater trickled down the corners but pooled away from where he lay, a minor miracle.
Fatty Jin was sprawled close by, snoring so loudly the rats kept a wary distance from his considerable belly.
For a moment, Shen Zhen just breathed, testing his ribs with shallow inhales. Pain throbbed, yet the sharpest agony was dulled. He raised his hands and blinked—purple bruises were already fading, and a faint black mark wound across the back of his right hand, like a tattoo drawn in shadow.
He touched it gently. It pulsed—alive. Not like blood, but like coiled lightning in his skin.
"You dying, or evolving?" Fatty Jin murmured, rolling over with a grunt. His eyes gleamed in the dimness, lips glistening with yam grease. "Because if you've turned into a ghost, I ain't sharing my breakfast."
Shen Zhen gave a dry laugh and promptly winced. "Still alive. Maybe angrier."
Fatty Jin tossed the yam's last chunk to Shen Zhen. "Eat. When you're strong enough to steal my food, then you'll know you're healed."
The first bite was a miracle. The second hurt less. By the third, Shen Zhen's stomach—a black hole—threatened to outpace the food. Hunger scraped every nerve, yet something deeper seemed to feed off the pain. He traced the black mark again, and, like memory surfacing from a dream, tried to will it to burn. A tingle responded but fizzled out, leaving only wonder and suspicion. Was this his birthmark—or the devil's curse the alley thugs had whispered about?
Fatty Jin eyed him. "There's talk, Zhen. Big talk. City guards patrolling the alleys. Some say they're looking for you. Others think you're dead. Though if they ask me, 'only trash can kill trash,' I'd say, 'try eating your own cooking and see what dies first.'"
Shen Zhen almost choked on a laugh. Despite everything, he was grateful for Jin's relentless banter—a slapstick comedy act performed for a world too cruel for mercy.
"They call me a devil now?" Shen Zhen muttered, voice trembling not with fear, but bitter humor.
Fatty Jin grinned. "The Devil Emperor, some say. Lucky you, I'm demon king of yam thievery. Together, we'll build a reputation. Or a grave."
For a little while, sitting in the leaking hovel, the world shrank to warm food, warm words, and the drizzle tapping its own beat on the city's bones.
The comfort, though, was fragile. Somewhere nearby, commotion erupted. Angry voices. Urgent, hurried footsteps, then the crash of a basket and wet curses.
Fatty Jin rose, peeking out. "Sect disciples. Dogs after blood—just not sure whose." He turned back with a worried pinch between his brows. "You should lay lower than a tick in a pig's arse, Zhen. They see that madness in your eyes, and you'll be boiling stew tonight."
Shen Zhen flashed his teeth—half-smile, half-threat. "I'm done running." He flexed his hand again, black mark glimmering under the lantern's haze.
But his mind flickered. He remembered that alley, the moment the guard's spear hit, the instant his body had failed. The golden warmth had exploded in his chest—a seal, a curse, a second chance. He'd survived through a miracle… or something darker.
He ate in silence, the rain drumming harder. When Jin wasn't looking, he poked, prodded, and squeezed the black mark, wishing for some reaction, some hint it was more than ugly luck. Sometimes, the skin tingled as if brushed by frost; sometimes it throbbed with heat, almost aching to burst free.
A sudden knock rattled the door.
Both boys froze. Jin clutched his precious yam. Shen Zhen set his jaw, stuffing the last crust into his mouth.
A girl's voice, nervous but clear, called from outside: "Fatty—your mother wants you. Says you've eaten enough for three demons. And she saw the guards—come quick!"
Jin groaned. "That's my cue to run."
Shen Zhen peered through a gap. Across the muddy street, city guards and a pair of Azure Sky Sect disciples prowled, eyes scanning shadows hungrily.
Jin whispered, "I know a place. Not safe, but safer. Try not to kill anyone until at least midday. We need new rumors—preferably ones where the hero gets the girl and the yam."
In another world, they might have laughed like foolish boys. In this one, every choice mattered. But Shen Zhen's will refused to break. He would experiment, master this power, and carve his fate from the filth—devil or emperor as destiny allowed.
He touched the black mark again. This time, it responded not with fire, but with a faint pulse that seemed almost to whisper: Not yet, but soon.
As the boys slipped into the gray city dawn, the only certainty was this—whispers of the Devil Emperor had begun, and the world would never be the same.