Rain washed the filth from Azure Sky City's alleys, but it could not cleanse the hunger from Shen Zhen's bones. He awoke in Fatty Jin's hovel, the world muffled by drizzle and the gauzy fog of lingering pain. At first, everything felt distant—a dull ache in his chest, pulsing warmth under his ribs, the roughness of a threadbare blanket against his cheek.
Gradually, color and life bled back. Shen Zhen blinked and flexed numb fingers. His hand was stained with dried blood, black veins twisting along the skin, the mark darker than ever. Each pulse seemed to whisper a secret, inviting him to probe deeper—if only he dared.
Fatty Jin stirred, yam crumbs glittering in his beard. "If you're going to haunt me, Zhen, at least let me sleep in peace."
Shen Zhen snorted softly. "You'd miss my company. Who else would eat your leftovers and keep the rats in check?"
Jin grinned, shoving a slab of stale bread his way. "Eat. I don't want a ghost for a roommate. Dead men don't split yam money."
Between bites, Shen Zhen experimented, massaging the black mark and pressing down until a spark of pain shot up his arm. The ache quickly faded into a weird, tingling sensation, like the mark was alive and waiting for him to ask the right question. He closed his eyes, willing the warmth beneath his chest to rise. For a moment, something shifted—skin tingled, bruises tightened—before the force fluttered away like a startled bird.
Jin's laughter snapped him back. "Careful, Zhen, or you'll turn yourself into a fried dumpling! Try not to explode in my house, at least wait until we're at the market. Better crowd reaction."
Shen Zhen smirked. Somehow, even beneath the looming weight of last night's violence, Jin's banter kept the shadows at bay.
A loud clamor echoed from the alley's mouth. The city guards were at it again, barking orders at half-awake beggars and merchants. Drunken curses, the crash of a broken cart, and the nervous scuttle of rats filled the cramped space.
"They'll be sniffing for you," Jin whispered, suddenly solemn. "The 'devil child' doesn't go unnoticed."
Shen Zhen's stomach clenched—not with fear, but with a twisting anticipation. The city had always scorned him, beaten him, spat at his name. Now they whispered. He liked the fear he saw in their eyes, just a little.
Outside, gangs of street thugs and urchins huddled in doorways. Some glared at the shack, some spat. But none dared come close. Even the bullies who once reveled in tormenting him now found other targets when he limped through the mud.
Jin nudged him. "You've got the look, Zhen—a wolf out of place among rats."
Shen Zhen almost laughed, but then froze. Through the window, a commotion broke out—three rough-looking boys, little more than skin and bone but mean as fire, were pushing around a tiny beggar girl. One held her by the hair while the others laughed, swiping a battered bun from her grasp.
The old rage awoke inside him—the same wildfire that had turned him into a demon in the alley. Not for himself, but for anyone weak, anyone mocked or trampled.
Jin recognized the look and hissed, "Don't. You can't save the world. The city's full of bastards."
Shen Zhen stood straight, body humming. "Maybe. But not today."
He strode from the shack, the rain slicking his tangled hair against his forehead, his bare feet splashing in the mud. The three thugs paused, sizing him up.
The biggest sneered, "Look who's alive! The devil rat. Want to bleed some more?"
The black mark prickled, as if hungry for pain.
Shen Zhen's voice was low and deadly calm. "Drop the bun. Let her go."
The leader spat at his feet. "Or what?"
He moved before they could react, kneeing the biggest in the gut and slamming his head into the wall. The second rushed in, swinging wildly, but Shen Zhen caught his arm and twisted until bones popped. The third, smaller than the others, tried to run, but found himself face-to-face with Jin, who blocked the exit and grinned. "Can I have your bun when you're finished?"
In seconds, it was over. The girl fled with her bun, shoes squelching in the mud.
The defeated thugs whimpered and crawled away. For a moment, the watching crowd said nothing.
Then someone muttered, "Don't mess with the devil," and others nodded, scattering into the morning gloom.
Back in the shack, Jin was breathless from laughter. "You're a walking calamity, Zhen! Can I brand your face on my yams? They'll sell twice as fast."
Shen Zhen threw a crumpled scrap of cloth at him, but humor warmed his chest almost as much as the black mark.
Later that day, the girl returned, now with two friends—a pair of twins with hawk-sharp eyes in dirty rags. She handed him a shriveled, near-rotten apple. "Thank you, Devil Emperor. They say... you don't let your people starve."
Jin feigned a swoon. "Devil Emperor, first of his name! Ruler of yams, protector of the weak, devourer of yams and devils alike!"
Shen Zhen smiled awkwardly but accepted the apple. In those ragged faces, he saw the future—the start of something mad and impossible. He would build a brotherhood out of trash, a legion that would one day shake the world.
His black-marked hand throbbed, as if ceaselessly hungry.
As dusk fell, a new rumor cut through the alleys: the devil child wasn't just surviving—he was gathering followers. Street rats started approaching, shy or bold, asking for help, a scrap of food, training, protection, or simply a place to belong. Every kindness returned tenfold in loyalty.
That night, as rain hammered the roof, Shen Zhen could not sleep.
He studied the black mark, tracing its web with shaking fingers, remembering every face—parents blurred in the fog of memory, the alley's cruelty, and those who had looked at him with hope, if only for a moment. He willed the mark to respond, drawing on every ounce of pain and anger and longing.
And something changed. The veins shivered, spreading tendrils up his wrist. Power surged—painful, intoxicating, raw.
He gasped, sweat breaking out along his brow.
Fatty Jin, half-asleep, muttered, "Don't explode, Zhen. I don't want to clean up demon guts."
Shen Zhen laughed softly, the sound bright and fierce, echoing under the storm.
"Yes, Devil Emperor..." he whispered, feeling power and hope and a glimmer of destiny awaken like fire in his veins.
He would survive. He would learn. And when the world spat on him again—this time, he'd spit back poison and flame.