The city woke to whispers.
By sunrise, the story had spread like oil fire: a nameless slum boy shattered an inner disciple's ribs and stood his ground under Azure Sky's bannered shadow. Some called it blasphemy. Others, mercy from the heavens. In the gutters, where words outlived teeth, a new name had fused itself to breath: Devil Emperor.
Shen Zhen rubbed sleep from tired eyes, the black veins on his forearm now webbed to the elbow. The mark pulsed in steady beats, each throb like a small hammer tapping iron into a blade. The seal beneath his ribs hummed faintly, a warm echo to cold rain.
Fatty Jin juggled two dented bowls and a chipped kettle as if the hovel were a palace kitchen. "Breakfast of champions," he announced. "Stew of three turnips and a rumor. Rumor's the part that gives it flavor."
Tie Hu and the twins Gan and Gen lined up straight-backed, knuckles bruised from drills Ling Yue had forced on them until their shoulders shook. Ling Yue herself stood in the doorway, hair damp, eyes sharp, watching the alley with a hunter's patience. Mei, the silent girl with the stitched shoulder, sat with a needle and thread, mending a torn cloak with careful hands.
"Eat," Shen Zhen said. "Then we train."
Jin blew on his bowl. "Train to do what? Punch clouds? Stare at disciples till they apologize? I can teach that last one."
"Train to live," Shen Zhen said. "And to choose how."
A shadow fell over the threshold. An old man stood there, stooped yet solid, wrapped in a rain-dark robe. His hair was stringy silver; his gaze held the flat appraisal of someone who had buried more names than most could count.
"You bled loudly yesterday," the old man rasped. "It woke things better left sleeping."
Fatty Jin tilted his head. "Grandpa Ghost? You still alive? Thought demons ate you. Or you ate them."
The old man's mouth twitched. "Little yam thief grew a tongue."
Shen Zhen's black mark prickled. "You know what this is?"
The old man stepped inside, eyes sliding to the mark, then to Shin Zhen's chest as if he could see the golden seal through flesh. "I know what it is not: it is not luck." He tapped the boy's wrist with a knuckle. "It devours. Yours is a devourer's hand. If you do not teach it what to eat, it will choose for you."
Ling Yue shifted subtly between the old man and the younger ones. "What do you want?"
"Coffee," Fatty Jin said, hopeful.
"Discipline," the old man said. "In exchange for silence. Azure Sky will come with nets. If you thrash, they'll pull you from the water and gut you on the pier. You need breath techniques, not street temper."
Shen Zhen's jaw tightened. "Teach me."
The old man's eyes creased. "Names first."
"Shen Zhen."
The old man nodded. "I was once called Yuan Po. Remembered by no one that matters."
Fatty Jin raised a hand. "Fatty Jin. Remembered by everyone that matters."
Tie Hu bowed awkwardly. "Tie Hu. I won't run."
"Gan," "Gen," the twins echoed, then bumped shoulders as if to prove they were two.
"Ling Yue," she said simply.
Mei didn't look up, but her needle paused—acknowledgment enough.
Yuan Po lowered himself with care and drew lines in the dirt with a cracked nail. "Three layers. Breath. Bone. Blood. Breath carries qi. Bones hold form. Blood decides how you spend your life. Yours," he glanced at Shen Zhen's forearm, "wants to spend you like a drunk with coins."
Shen Zhen listened without blinking.
"Sit," Yuan Po said. "All of you."
They did. Even Jin, grumbling, folded down, cheeks puffed in mock solemnity.
"Belly like a pot," Yuan Po instructed, tapping his own gut. "Back like a bow. Tongue to the roof of the mouth. In through the nose, slow, till you feel your lower belly expand. That's dantian. Don't chase fire. Invite air."
They breathed.
Outside, rain whispered. Inside, lungs answered.
"Again," Yuan Po said.
Minutes dragged. Shoulders dropped. The room's jitter steadied. Shen Zhen felt the mark's hunger press up, curious, then… a curious easing. The golden seal's hum synched with breath; each inhale brushed warm against his bruised ribs. The ache in his knuckles settled, like dogs circling before sleep.
"Good," Yuan Po said. "Again."
Jin's eyelids fluttered. He snored once, jerked, then pretended he hadn't.
By the twentieth breath, Shen Zhen found the bottom of it—a small still pond under the storm. He didn't fall in. He sat by it, watching ripples calm.
"Now," Yuan Po said, "teach the hand."
"How?" Shen Zhen asked.
Yuan Po raised two fingers. "Touch and deny."
He dragged a shard of pottery across his own palm, a thin line of red appearing. He held out his hand. "Devourer takes pain first. It always wants the easy meal. But if you let it, it will eat your temper, your judgment, your lovers, your brothers. Touch the hurt. Breathe. Tell it: not this."
Shen Zhen swallowed. Ling Yue's gaze burned over his shoulder; the boys leaned forward.
He pressed his black-marked palm lightly over Yuan Po's cut. Warmth bloomed—then surged, greedy, up his arm. His jaw clenched; the mark flared black as ink under sun. The urge to pull, to drink, to fill the gnawing hollow was overwhelming—ecstasy adjacent to panic.
"Not this," Shen Zhen whispered, voice raw.
The urge spiked. He held. The golden seal hummed, steady as a hand on his heart. The spike ebbed. The warmth shifted, diffused through his palm like soft rain, not storm. Yuan Po's cut closed by a hair's breadth—then stopped.
"Enough," the old man said, and pulled away. He regarded his palm, then Shen Zhen's forearm. "Better than most but worse than a saint."
Fatty Jin clapped. "Healed a wrinkle too? Do my face next. My future wives will thank you."
Yuan Po snorted. "Your future wives will be blind."
Training bled into midday. Breath work. Stances. The names of bones and where anger hides between them. How to set a foot in mud so you can still push off fast. How to keep sight of four threats with two eyes.
"Legion needs a spine," Yuan Po said without looking at Shen Zhen. "If you become only teeth, you'll bite your own tongue off."
"Legion," Jin whispered, tasting the word. "Void… something."
"Later," Shen Zhen said, though the word hung warm in his chest.
They were still practicing when a rock tapped the doorframe. A boy in decent clothes—decent enough to mean he had a master and food—stood panting in the rain. He flinched when everyone turned.
"Message," he blurted, thrusting a waxed paper forward. "From… from someone who says you saved her cousin. Said to give it to the Devil Emperor."
Jin executed an elegant bow and accepted it like a courtier. "Your Majesty, your first fan letter. Try not to cry."
Shen Zhen took the note. The wax bore a pressed cloud—Azure Sky's sigil. Inside, neat characters:
Come to the Old Bells at dusk. If you want more than anger, come alone. Bring no blades. —Ch.
"Trap," Ling Yue said.
"Or test," Yuan Po murmured. His mouth turned down. "The Old Bells are in sect reach. But not under their full law. A clever place to meet a stray dog with sharp teeth."
Jin peered up into Shen Zhen's face. "We go together. If anyone says 'alone,' they mean 'so we can kill you once.'"
Shen Zhen considered. Images fluttered—last night's fight, Zhou Ming's blood, the crowd's chant, the warmth of the seal, the steady breath, the pond under storm. The boys around him: Tie Hu's jaw, set like a small hammer. Gan and Gen trying to stand taller than each other. Ling Yue, a blade sheathed in a smile. Mei, stitching, as if repairing cloth might keep all of them from unraveling.
"I'll go," he said. "Alone at first. Then not."
Ling Yue's lips thinned. "You don't owe them courtesy."
"I owe the legion caution," he said gently.
Jin sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if you die, I'm keeping your shoes."
"They're my only pair," Shen Zhen said.
"All the more reason."
Dusk bled into the alleys like purple wine. The Old Bells was a collapsed temple whose two ruined bells lay half-buried in weeds. People said they rang by themselves when war was coming. People said many things.
Shen Zhen arrived with his hood low and hands empty. He stood in the open, not bothering to hide. The black mark was quiet. The seal was warm.
"Ch," he called softly. "I'm here."
A figure stepped from behind the smallest bell—short, robed, a veil masking her lower face. Her posture was crisp, every movement spare. Sect training.
"You received my letter," she said. Her voice was cool but not unkind.
"That, or fate likes pranks."
A pause. "You angered Zhou Ming."
"Zhou Ming angered the gutters."
"You hit him first."
"He stepped first."
Silence hung, then a breath that might have been a laugh. "I am Chen Hui. Outer disciple."
"Why send a letter?" Shen Zhen asked. "Most disciples prefer spears."
"I prefer outcomes," she said. "Your… display created two problems. First, you embarrassed a petty man with large friends. He will escalate. Second, you interested people who do not like being interested. They will also escalate."
"Your advice?"
"Live. Long enough to choose who you become." She stepped closer, eyes studying the blackened veins at his wrist. "You carry a devourer's mark."
"You see it?"
"Not with eyes." She tapped her brow. "With training. It smells like winter. Be careful when you're hungry."
"What do you want from me?" Shen Zhen asked.
"Nothing," she said, and the honesty in the word startled him. "But I am tired of sifting bones from drains. If you build something, build it so fewer children drown. I can tell you where Azure Sky is weak—or crooked. You can do what gutter-kings do best: bite."
He let out a slow breath. The pond beneath the storm lay very still. "Why help me?"
Her gaze slid past him to the alley, to shadows that held too many memories. "Because I was a gutter girl before I was a cloud."
He nodded once. "Then help me now."
"Zhou Ming will return within three days with approvals to arrest under 'demonic suspicion.' It will be a raid before dawn. He will use constables so the sect's hands look clean. He will want you alive long enough to parade, then dead enough to forget." A flicker of anger warmed her voice. "Do not be there."
Shen Zhen's jaw flexed. "We move."
"Not yet." She reached into her sleeve and pulled a small clay vial. "Powder. Break it in water. It will show you where qi pools under ground. There are places even Azure Sky cannot stand comfortably. Hide there. Train there. The slum calls them dead pockets. They are sleeping dragon veins."
He took the vial. "And you?"
Her veil crinkled with a half-smile. "I was never here."
Footsteps scuffed—a drunk, or an ear. Chen Hui's head tilted. "We are watched," she murmured. "Go."
He went. He didn't look back.
By the time he slipped into the hovel, night had braided itself tight around the city. The others rose. Ling Yue's eyes searched his face, finding answers he hadn't spoken.
"Trap?" Jin asked.
"Map," Shen Zhen said, holding up the vial.
They gathered around a cracked bowl. He poured water. It held their reflections—tired, fierce, a little afraid. He squeezed the clay vial. Pale dust clouded the surface, then drifted, then sank in lines that drew themselves across the bowl's bottom like a child's sketch of rivers.
Yuan Po leaned in, breath held. "Under the old tannery," he whispered. "And beneath the collapsed kiln. Puddled qi. Dirty but deep."
Shen Zhen looked up. "We move before dawn. Split. Pairs. We train under the city's lungs while Azure Sky chokes on its own pride."
He turned to the boys. "Tie Hu with me. Gan with Gen. Ling Yue leads Mei and Jin."
"Me?" Jin squeaked. "I'm ballast!"
"You're loud," Shen Zhen said. "Make noise away from where we hide. Be the rumor."
Jin straightened. "I can be ten rumors."
"Be one good one," Ling Yue said, smirking. "Make it about your cooking."
"That's slander."
They packed in silence born not of fear but of focus. Rags. A pot. Needle and twine. A small bag of turnips that Jin kissed like children. Yuan Po slipped Shen Zhen a shard of bone carved with four grooves.
"What's this?" Shen Zhen asked.
"An old breath," Yuan Po said. "Chew it when panic claws your throat. It will remind your lungs they have work to do."
Shen Zhen tucked it away. The mark on his arm pulsed once, twice—alert, eager, not frantic. The seal under his ribs warmed like a hand on his back: go.
They slipped into alleys that had been their cradle and their cage. The city's sounds changed after midnight—fewer threats, more secrets. Cats argued like old philosophers. A bell clanged twice far away, then fell silent, ashamed.
Near the abandoned tannery, Chen Hui's powder had drawn a ghostly thread along the ground. Shen Zhen followed it to a cracked flagstone half-swallowed by moss. Together, he and Tie Hu pried it up. Beneath, earth exhaled—cool, damp, a little sour. A sleeping thing, disturbed.
They wriggled through. The cavity was a low room more felt than seen, the air thick as cloth. Shen Zhen sat cross-legged, Tie Hu mirroring him. Their knees touched. Their breath steamed.
"Belly like a pot," Shen Zhen whispered. "Back like a bow."
Tie Hu did not answer with words, only settled and breathed.
Shen Zhen placed his marked palm on the ground. The devourer stirred, curious. The seal hummed. He invited breath. This time, instead of calling heat, he sought the cool river under stone. It came slow, reluctant, like an old friend betrayed once, twice, testing him. He did not reach to grab. He opened his hand and waited.
Something in the ground sighed.
Qi seeped up—not rich like sect hills, not clean like mountain lakes, but steady. It pooled around the dantian when he met it with breath. The black mark did not lunge. It observed, then edged closer, then took only the edge of ache from his ribs, like a beast taking meat from a hand and not the hand.
They sat. Time unspooled. Tie Hu's breath steadied; the boy's narrow shoulders loosened. Shen Zhen's mind dipped into the pond under the storm and did not drown. Above, the city turned in its fever-dreams. Far away, bells might have moved.
When at last they emerged, night was thinning. Across the slum, in other pockets, Ling Yue and Mei and Jin, the twins, Yuan Po—each found other dragon-vein hollows. They were not safe. But they were safer than alleys.
On the hovel's wall, someone had scratched a crude sigil while they were gone: a circle split by a vertical line, like a seal half-seen through fog.
Jin pointed. "Fan art."
Ling Yue's mouth curved. "Identity."
Shen Zhen touched the mark. His own burned, answering. "Memory," he said softly. "Of what we'll become."
"Of what we already are," Yuan Po corrected. "Azure Sky will come at dawn and find ghosts. They hate ghosts. Ghosts are hard to parade."
Jin rubbed his hands. "So what now, Emperor of Tunnels?"
Shen Zhen looked at each of them, then down at his forearm where void-dark veins threaded like constellations across skin. He felt the flaw in him—the reverse scale—hot and ready to blind him if touched. He felt the brothers around him, their belief heavier than chains and lighter than breath. He felt the city above, cruel and crackable.
"Now," he said, voice quiet and sure, "we build the Void. And when the sky looks down, it will see itself reflected—and flinch."
Outside, the first gray of morning bled along the roofs. In the distance, a bell did ring, once, then again, the sound swallowed by rain.
They smiled anyway.
They were still alive. And for the first time, living felt like a choice.