Cold. Sticky. Foul.
That was the first thing Ling Yuan felt when he regained consciousness. Half his body lay submerged in filthy water, pressed against slimy moss-covered stone. Then, like a flood, memory came crashing back—the fire in the Ling estate, his father's final roar, the blade piercing through Old Zhong's chest, his desperate crawl through the drainage tunnel…
He had made it out alive. Somehow, he had escaped.
This was no banquet hall—it was a dark, twisting sewer beneath the capital.
"Cough… cough…" Pain wracked his body. Every bone screamed as if broken; his shoulders and knees were raw and bleeding from scraping against stone. His once-elegant robes were shredded into muddy rags, soaked with filth. Hours ago, he had been the celebrated top scholar of the empire. Now he was more wretched than a beggar.
The tunnel was silent but for the trickle of water and his ragged breathing. Then—
Clang.
The sound of steel scraping stone echoed faintly behind him. Voices followed, low and cold.
The soldiers were coming.
Terror slammed into him, snapping him awake. Instinct overpowered pain. Ling Yuan staggered to his feet and splashed forward, stumbling through the black water, one hand brushing the walls to feel his way. The darkness was suffocating, but he had no choice.
Behind him, firelight flickered against the damp walls.
"There! He's close!"
"Don't let him escape!"
His heart pounded like a drum. He ran blindly, splashing through muck. Just as their footsteps closed in, he spotted a narrow side passage. Without hesitation, he darted inside.
He didn't know how long he ran. At last, faint light appeared ahead, along with the roar of rushing water.
An exit!
At the end was a rusted iron grate, but time had eaten through its bottom edge. Ling Yuan dropped flat and forced himself through the gap, scraping skin and cloth.
And then—air.
Cold night air slapped his face as he tumbled out onto the riverbank. Rain lashed down, soaking him instantly, washing away the stench but stabbing him with icy pain. He had surfaced by the southern canal, far from the bustling streets.
He drew a breath of freedom—only to freeze at the shouts above.
"Seal the riverbank!"
"Search every bridge and every boat!"
Torches moved along the high banks. Soldiers spread out, sweeping the area.
Ling Yuan pressed himself flat against the wet stone wall, hiding in shadows beneath drooping willows. Rain streamed down his hair into his eyes, but he dared not move or breathe too loud. Fear, grief, and rage tore at him from within.
Then—a cough.
Soft, faint, but achingly familiar.
His body trembled. He turned toward a dark bridge arch, lightning briefly illuminating the figure slumped there—a soaked, bloodied old man.
"Zhong…" Ling Yuan's heart clenched.
He crept closer, every movement silent.
"Zhong! It's me!" he whispered hoarsely.
The old servant stirred, pale as death, chest bound crudely but bleeding through. His eyes lit up when he saw Ling Yuan, and with surprising strength, he gripped the young man's arm.
"Master… you… you survived…" His breath rattled with pain. "This useless old slave… I couldn't hold them all… I only pretended to fall… rolled down with the rain… slipped away to here…"
So it was a ruse. With his last strength, Zhong had feigned death—just to find Ling Yuan.
"Don't speak, save your strength!" Ling Yuan's tears mingled with rain as he tried uselessly to staunch the bleeding.
But Zhong shook his head. With trembling hands, he pulled out a small cloth bundle and shoved it into Ling Yuan's grasp. His voice was barely a whisper:
"Listen… this… your father gave me long ago… If disaster came… go to West City… Blue Stone Alley… find… a lame blacksmith… called Uncle Ya…"
The bundle was light, metal clinking within.
"And… the jade pendant… your father's gift… keep it safe…" His cloudy eyes burned with urgency. "The Ling family's vengeance… Master… you must… live…"
His words faltered. His grip tightened, then fell limp. The fire in his eyes flickered out, leaving them wide open, still staring at Ling Yuan with eternal loyalty.
"Zhong… no…!" Ling Yuan shook his shoulders, but the old servant's body was already cold.
Another one—another life lost for him.
Rain hammered down, but it couldn't match the icy grief spreading in his chest.
"Down by the bridge!" A soldier's shout split the night.
Torches swept closer.
Ling Yuan's body went rigid. He glanced at Zhong's corpse, grief nearly tearing him apart, but he knew—he couldn't stay. Not now.
Clutching the cloth bundle and the jade pendant, he gently laid Zhong flat, bowed three times, and then slid into the roaring canal without a sound.
The moment he vanished underwater, the torches lit the bridge arch.
"There's a body!"
"It's the old servant of the Ling family!"
"The boy can't be far! Search the river!"
Beneath the surface, the current tore at Ling Yuan, chilling him to the bone. His lungs screamed, but his mind burned with clarity.
Live. Find Uncle Ya. Remember Gao Wenchang. Avenge the Ling family.
The words etched themselves into his soul. He was no longer the elegant scholar of the banquet. He was a soul forged in blood and fire.
He swam until his chest nearly burst, until the shouts behind faded. At last, he surfaced in a deserted bend of the canal, trash floating on the water.
Crawling onto the muddy bank, he collapsed, coughing out river water, his body trembling with exhaustion and cold. His wounds throbbed, filth burned in them, but he was alive.
Alive. Alone.
Staring at the endless rain above, Ling Yuan realized with brutal clarity: the Ling family was gone. He was the only one left.
And in the darkness of this despair, a single thread of hope awaited in the western alleys of the city—Uncle Ya, the lame blacksmith.
Clutching the bundle and jade to his chest, he swore to himself: this was the path his father and Zhong had carved for him, at the cost of their lives.
He would live.
He would endure.
And one day—he would return.