He slipped through the gap in the crumbling southern wall like a foul creature. The reek of the Dregs, a miasma of desperation and decay, clung to him, but it was nothing compared to the primal stench of blood and viscera that had become his second skin. He clutched the bloody, makeshift sack to his chest, its contents a secret, heavy weight that was both his terror and his only hope.
The Yang Clan estate was a tomb under the cold, indifferent light of Selene's Veil. He moved through the sleeping compound, a wraith reeking of transgression, his every sense screaming. Every shadow was a guard. Every gust of wind was an approaching footstep.
He used the Flowing Water Step, his movements silent on the cold flagstones, his body a low crouch as he flitted from shadow to shadow, the coiling lessons of his new scripture the only reason he hadn't already been caught.
He made it back to his own courtyard, the scent of his own filth a suffocating announcement. Inside his room, he barred the door and slid to the floor, his body trembling with an exhaustion so profound it felt like a physical illness. The sack lay beside him, a gory, pathetic trophy. The coppery smell of blood was overwhelming in the small, enclosed space.
He couldn't keep it here. The smell would betray him before morning. He needed to clean the parts. He needed water. He needed absolute privacy.
His mind, sharpened by a new, desperate clarity, raced through the layout of the decaying estate. The main bathhouse was a death sentence. The communal pumps were too public. Then he remembered. The Withering Springs Bathhouse. An old, abandoned structure in a neglected corner of the Second House's wing, a place of ghosts and dust where the springs had run cold decades ago. It was perfect.
He took the most valuable items—the milky Beast Core and the sharp, curved claws—and hid them with the journals under the loose floorboard, a quick, furtive prayer on his lips. He wrapped the ruined, bloody pelt in the cloth from his robes and slipped back out into the night.
He found the bathhouse easily, its roof sagging like a weary spine, its torn paper windows flapping like broken wings in the faint breeze. The door groaned open under his touch, a sound loud as a thunderclap in the oppressive silence. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of dust and damp, rotten wood. Moonlight, filtered through holes in the roof, cast down ethereal beams, illuminating a large, empty stone pool filled with dead leaves and grime. A single spigot, fed by a rainwater cistern, dripped a slow, steady rhythm into the silence.
Drip.
Drip.
He worked under that faint, ghostly light, a boy playing at being a hunter, a ghost trying to wash away the evidence of a life he wasn't supposed to have. He turned the spigot, and a trickle of cold, clean water flowed into the filthy basin. He unrolled the pelt. It was a gruesome sight, the fur matted, the skin stiffening as the blood congealed. He scrubbed at the gore with a rough cloth, the water turning a sickly pink around his trembling fingers.
The sound of a floorboard creaking in the corridor outside made him freeze, his head snapping up, his eyes wide with terror. He stared at the doorway, his heart seizing in his chest.
Silence. Only the slow, steady drip of the water. His own paranoia. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and returned to his grim task, his hands moving with a new, frantic urgency.
The morning of the third day of the sixth moon broke grey and cheerless. In her opulent chambers, Madam Liu slammed a silver hairbrush down onto her lacquered vanity, the sharp crack echoing the state of her own frayed nerves.
"He has returned, Mistress," the servant girl reported, her face pale and her gaze fixed on the floor. "Sometime during the night. The guards at the servant's gate did not see him. He has barred his door and refuses all entry. His breakfast remains untouched."
Madam Liu's reflection was a mask of beautiful, venomous fury. He was back. Not repentant, not begging forgiveness, but locked away. Hiding. Defying her.
Her husband, Yang Zhan, had dismissed her worry yesterday morning. "He is a boy, Liu'er, a fool who likely got lost and was too ashamed to return."
A fool. Yes, he was a fool. A weak, pathetic boy who could have been found dead in a ditch in the Dregs, bringing a final, ultimate shame down upon her and the Second House. The thought, instead of bringing sorrow, brought a hot, volcanic fury. How dare he? How dare he make her worry? After eleven years of being her silent, living shame, he now chose to become a public, active one.
Her first instinct was to storm to his hovel, to have the door kicked down and demand to know where he had been. To shake him, to scream at him, to remind him that he was her son and his life, however worthless, was hers to command.
But she stopped herself. What would she even say? To scream at him would be to admit her terror. To demand answers would be to reveal that she, who controlled everything in her house, had been made a fool of by her own crippled child. It would be an admission of weakness, a confession of her own fear.
No. She would not grant him that.
"Watch his courtyard," she commanded the servant, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that was far more menacing than a shout. "I want to know if a single rat scurries in or out of that hovel. I want to know if he speaks to the wind. Report everything to me."
"Yes, Mistress," the girl stammered, bowing low before scurrying from the room.
Madam Liu turned back to her mirror, her breathing slow and controlled, her anger a banked fire. He was her son. Her blood. Her greatest failure. And for the first time since he had woken, he was a complete stranger to her, a ghost moving with a purpose she could not discern. The thought did not bring her peace. It terrified her.
Yang Kai spent the day in a state of suspended animation, too terrified to sleep, too exhausted to train. He barred the door and laid the now-clean pelt out to dry, the gamey scent still lingering in the air. He waited, his nerves screaming, as the sun arced across the sky. He felt like a true criminal, hiding the evidence of his crime, waiting for the inevitable boot on the door.
But it never came. As twilight fell, a grim resolve settled over him. He needed to go back out. He needed to see Xiong.
That night, he left the estate once more, a phantom in borrowed rags, carrying his meager fortune. The Beast Core and claws were wrapped securely in one pocket, the folded, mostly-dry pelt in another. He didn't feel like a victor. He felt like a thief, carrying stolen goods to a fence.
The Silent Pavilion Inn was a cacophony of noise and smoke, a microcosm of the Dregs' desperate, violent energy. In his usual corner, Xiong was holding court. He slammed his tankard down, the heavy thud silencing the argument at his table.
"The Feng Clan dogs are sniffing around the West Gate again," he rumbled, his voice a low growl that carried over the din. "It's getting harder to move the goods."
He took a long drink of ale, his mind churning. Business was business, but this new pressure felt different. And then there was the other matter. The rumor from two nights ago. Some scrawny rat using his name as a shield in the forest. It was an insult. A dangerous one. Reputation was everything in the Dregs. It was the only currency that truly mattered. If people thought they could use his name without consequence, his authority would erode like a riverbank in a flood.
He had put the word out. He wanted to know who this ghost was. He was expecting to find some sniveling, desperate fool he could make an example of.
Then he saw him.
A thin figure slipped through the door, his straw hat pulled low, moving with a furtive, hunted energy. The boy made a beeline for the darkest corner of the tavern, trying to make himself invisible.
It was the clan pup. Yang Kai.
Xiong's eyes narrowed. The timing was too perfect. The rumor of a rat in the woods, and now the rat himself appears at his door. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face, hidden in the depths of his thick beard. This was going to be interesting.
Yang Kai's courage almost failed him. The sheer, predatory energy of the room was a physical weight. But he had no choice. He took a deep breath, stood, and walked towards the back table.
The conversations at the nearby tables quieted as he approached. A Yang Clan disciple, even one in rags, walking willingly into the Rat's Nest's corner was a rare and fascinating sight.
Xiong looked up as he approached, his expression a perfect mask of casual surprise. "The pup returns," he rumbled, his voice carrying over the sudden quiet. "So soon. You must be a fast worker."
Yang Kai stopped at the edge of the table, his heart pounding. He bowed his head slightly. "I have something for you."
Xiong's smile widened. He gestured to the empty space on the bench beside him. "Sit. Show me."
Yang Kai hesitated, then sat, acutely aware of the hard, appraising stares of Xiong's men. He carefully placed the folded pelt on the table. Then he unwrapped the Beast Core and the claws, laying them out beside it.
Xiong picked up the milky Beast Core, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Spirit Grade. Low quality, but intact. Good." He examined the claws, then unfolded the pelt, his lip curling slightly at the sight of the clumsy tears and holes. "Your knife-work is garbage. You ruined half its value."
Yang Kai said nothing. He simply waited, his face a mask of nervous anticipation.
Xiong leaned back, taking a long drink of ale. He set the jug down with a heavy thud. "I heard a story," he said, his voice casual, but his eyes were hard as flint. "A story about a little rat in the woods who was saved from some hungry mercenaries because he whispered my name. A funny story, don't you think?"
The blood drained from Yang Kai's face. He was caught.
"I was desperate," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Xiong stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, he let out a short, barking laugh. "That you were," he admitted. He leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "You have nerve, pup. Using my name is a death sentence for most. But you… you brought the profits directly to my table. That shows a different kind of thinking. That shows respect for the rules."
He pointed at the beast parts. "Fifty Low-Grade Star-Jades," he said. "For everything."
Fifty. It was more than he had ever had. A fortune. And it was less than three percent of what he needed.
"The core alone is worth that," Yang Kai said, his voice quiet but firm, repeating the line he had read in the journals.
Xiong let out another short laugh. "The core is worth that to a clan alchemist with a proper workshop. To me, it is worth what I can sell it for in the Shadow Market, minus my fee for the risk of dealing with stolen goods, and a small surcharge for the unauthorized use of my good name." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "Fifty jades. Take it or leave it. That is my only offer."
Yang Kai looked at the small pile of treasures, then at Xiong's unyielding face. He had no leverage. No other buyers. He gave a single, small nod.
"I'll take it."
Xiong grinned, a flash of teeth in his thick beard. He barked an order to one of his men, who returned a moment later and tossed a small, heavy pouch onto the table. The clink of the jades was a solid, real sound.
"A pleasure doing business with you, pup," Xiong said, sweeping the beast parts into his own sack.
Yang Kai took the pouch, its weight a small, solid reality in his hand. He stood up, bowed his head again, and walked away.
He left the inn, the noise and smoke fading behind him. He walked through the dark alleys of the Dregs, his hand clutched around the small pouch.
Fifty Star-Jades. It felt like everything. And it was nowhere near enough.
[Cycle of the Azure Emperor, Year 3473, 6th Moon, 3rd Day]