The warmth in his belly still felt unreal. A river running under his ribs, a horizon steady behind it. Foundation. Rat wanted to scream it at the Basin just to watch the guttersnipes choke, but he had learned one thing: the Basin taxed boasting.
So instead he strutted.
It wasn't much of a strut. Rags still clung to his shoulders, his ribs still poked out, and his shoes had more holes than cloth. But inside, each step hummed with the secret fire of Qi. He even practiced breathing the beggar's tide as he walked, exhaling slow as if the market's stench of fried oil and fish guts was some divine perfume.
"Look at the vermin pretending to be noble," someone jeered.
Rat grinned, tooth gap flashing. "If I'm noble, you're my servant. Go fetch me a corpse to practice on."
The hawkers roared with laughter at the insult, though not with him, never with him, always at him. Still, Rat let it ride. Every jeer was camouflage. If they were laughing at his mouth, they weren't looking close enough at the quiet glow inside him.
The Codex appeared faintly, threads rippling silver in the corner of his vision. The words scrawled across a page:
[Experiment registered: Foundation circulation]
[Skill Pattern Imprinted: Rat's Scramble (Instinctive Dodge)]
Rat nearly tripped over a cabbage crate. "Scramble? That's your idea of respect?"
The Codex did not answer. It never did.
He tested it anyway. He ducked between two stalls, wove under a laundry line, and at the last second felt his feet move before he thought. His body skittered sideways, shoulder first, slipping just under the sweep of a butcher's angry broom. Rat popped out on the other side, panting.
"Scramble," he muttered. "Perfect. My great cultivation legacy is looking like vermin."
The Basin answered by sending trouble.
A gang of four boys blocked the market's end, bellies half-fed, hands gripping sticks. Not the same brats who had beaten him before, these ones were sharper, eyes too narrow, like dogs that had smelled weakness.
"Street rat," the tallest said. "Word is you've been talking back to sect disciples."
Rat held up empty hands. "Correction. One sect disciple. And I didn't so much talk back as… donate sarcasm."
"Funny," another spat. "Let's see if you can joke with broken teeth."
They came at him, sticks raised.
Rat's instincts screamed. His body jittered, feet moving like water spilled across stone. Rat's Scramble kicked in. The first swing passed over his head as he bent like he was ducking under a rotten beam. A second swing clipped his shoulder, sending pain blooming, but his momentum rolled him between legs.
He popped up behind the tallest boy and hissed, "Boo."
The boy yelped, spun, and tripped over his own companion. Both went down in a heap. The market cackled.
Rat darted aside, Qi thrumming faintly with each breath. It wasn't power yet, it was survival, magnified. His ribs ached, but the ember in his belly poured a sliver of warmth into his arms. He swung a fist at the nearest stick-boy. The punch landed softer than he hoped, but the boy reeled anyway. Not from Rat's strength, but from fate's weight behind it.
The Codex shimmered.
[Fate entangles. Choice manifests]
[Path One: Flee. Live. Reputation worsens]
[Path Two: Stand. Endure. Reputation grows]
Rat's jaw tightened. "Figures."
The boys surged together. He clenched his teeth, planted his feet, and let Horizon Breath fill his belly. His body steadied. The sticks rained down, blows cracking across his arms, shoulders, ribs. Pain roared through him.
He laughed anyway, wild and ugly. "Is this all? My mother hit harder, and she was a drunk!"
The crowd howled. The gang faltered. Fate threads tugged.
One of the boys slipped in the mud, flailing. His stick snapped across his own ally's head. Another stumbled back, arms windmilling, and toppled into a fishmonger's barrel. Eels thrashed free, slapping wet against ankles. The market exploded with shrieks.
When it ended, Rat was bruised, bleeding, but standing. The gang scattered, slipping on eels and curses, their dignity shredded beyond repair.
The market erupted with gossip. "The Fate Rat!" someone cried. "He bites Beasts and breaks gangs!"
Rat spat blood into the mud and bowed. "Autographs later. Payment accepted in bread."
The laughter turned uneasy. Names in the Basin were dangerous. Fate Rat. It would stick.
The Codex descended again, threads weaving tight.
[Codex of Strands of Fate – Status Update]
Vitality: 3
Qi Sense: 3
Comprehension: 3
Fate Entanglement: 8
Realm: Foundation Establishment
New Skill Unlocked: Rat's Scramble (Instinctive Dodge)
Description: Your body moves before your brain does. Increases evasion under stress. Unreliable. Improves with humiliation.
New Recipe Unlocked: Dust Soup (Stabilizes shaky Foundation Qi)
Ingredients: cracked barley, gutter ash, one scrap of Qi-touched herb.
Rat blinked at the new page. "Soup? You're joking. My great destiny is broth with ash?"
The Codex closed.
Rat rubbed his ribs, chuckling weakly. His belly burned with warmth, his body with pain, his future with laughter and knives.
At the edge of the market, a shadow fell.
The boy disciple of Open Sky Sect stood there, pale blue robe crisp as new parchment. His smirk carried blades.
"You," he said. "The gutter filth my junior sister noticed. The one daring to touch the Sect's trials."
Rat groaned. "Of course it's you."
The disciple's hand fell to the token at his belt, silver horizon gleaming. "You won't survive the trials. But you'll crawl for me first."
The market fell silent. Threads shivered.
The Codex stirred.