Empyreal Year 2536, 4th Month, 12th Day
Chén Yè had learned early that survival meant paying attention.
The gossip sheets weren't meant for boys like him. Three coppers at the corner stand. He hadn't held three coppers at once since last winter.
The vendor was lazy. The morning crowd was thick.
If Chén Yè timed it right, the paper slipped free.
He read in the alley behind the bakery, hot bread and burnt sugar drifting through the air like deliberate cruelty. He read fast, memorized faster, then slid the sheet back into the stack before the vendor noticed.
Not stealing.
Borrowing.
Today's headline stilled his hands.
BARON'S DAUGHTER FLEES TESTING — SEARCH UNDERWAY
He scanned quickly.
Identified.
Connection to a concept.
Divine existence material.
She had run.
He understood.
The war hadn't reached the capital walls, but it came back in pieces. Divine existences staggered through the checkpoints each week—bleeding, broken, or carried under cloth before dawn. Officials preferred the city asleep when the carts rolled by.
Divine existences were dying.
Testing wasn't honor.
It was replacement.
He returned the sheet. The vendor never looked up.
---
He saw her three days later.
The old river shrine in the temple district was supposed to be empty—its god forgotten, its offerings stale. He'd meant to sleep there.
Movement near the cracked altar stopped him.
A girl crouched among overturned bowls, fingers quick and efficient. She checked each offering dish as if inventorying easure.
Looking for food.
Her clothes were fine—once. Silk torn at the hem, embroidery dulled by grime. Dark hair hung loose and uncombed. Hunger had sharpened her face.
New hunger.
Chén Yè stayed pressed to the wall.
She found dried fruit hardened to stone, half a loaf wrapped in cloth. She gathered them carefully, sliding them into her sleeve.
Moonlight cut through the broken ceiling.
It caught her profile.
The baron's daughter.
He stayed still long after she slipped into shadow.
He could leave. Forget what he'd seen.
But usefulness was currency.
He had very little of it.
---
He waited two days.
Not from guilt.
From calculation.
On the third day, the notice appeared in the market square—cream paper against a soot-black wall.
REWARD OFFERED
Twenty gold marks for information leading to the recovery of the Baron's missing daughter.
Additional favor granted for service rendered.
Twenty gold marks.
He read it twice.
Twenty gold marks meant a roof. Clothes without holes. Apprenticeship. A door that locked from the inside.
Favor meant protection.
Protection meant time.
He turned from the square and walked.
Each step felt deliberate.
He did not look back.
---
"I know where the baron's daughter is," he told the officer.
The man's gaze slid over him—rags, hollow cheeks, steady eyes. "Do you?"
"Old river shrine. Temple district."
"You're certain?"
Chén Yè met his stare. "Yes."
A pause.
"Wait here."
---
They found her before sunset.
He didn't watch.
Two days later, he received a purse heavy enough to change his life and a sealed letter stamped with Baron Liang's crest.
He told himself it was a fair exchange.
He almost believed it.
---
The estate smelled of polished wood and incense.
He kept his hands folded tight in his lap, careful not to touch the silk cushions.
"You rendered useful service," the official said, setting another small purse on the table. It clinked. "A bonus."
Chén Yè reached—
The man caught his wrist.
"One more matter. Standard procedure. Testing."
The word struck like ice water.
"For potential," the official clarified. "Routine."
---
The chamber was cold.
Three officials stood around him. Something pressed inward—not weight, not touch. A presence that sifted, searched, catalogued.
He stared straight ahead.
He had no power. Street mystics had tested him for scraps of coin when he was younger. Nothing. He was ordinary as stone.
One official inhaled sharply.
Chén Yè's pulse skipped.
"Positive."
Silence.
"Connection detected."
"That's not possible," Chén Yè said. The words came out thin.
The lead official stepped closer. His smile had changed.
"Strong resonance."
The room tilted.
"I'm not going," Chén Yè said. "I'm not—"
He ran.
Three steps.
Something invisible struck him mid-stride. The impact stole breath, flipped the world sideways. Stone met his face. Something cracked. He tasted blood and enamel.
Hands hauled him up.
He bit.
A fist crushed into his jaw. Light burst white, then red.
Darkness followed.
---
Cold water dragged him back.
Laughter echoed off high stone walls.
"Wake up, little rat."
He blinked. Two guards stood over him, grinning. The air around them felt wrong—dense, heavy. Now that his senses had opened, he could feel it.
Divine existences.
He was lifted one-handed, feet dangling.
"Thought you could run?" one asked.
The other punched him across the face. His head snapped sideways. Copper flooded his mouth.
"Tongue gone?" the first sneered.
They laughed.
Memory slid into place—the test, the word positive, the wall of force.
Understanding followed.
The laughter stopped.
"There it is," one guard said softly. "He remembers."
They dropped him.
He hit stone and stayed down.
Rage flared—bright, useless. He let it burn behind a blank face.
The strong ruled.
They always had.
---
Rumors had always moved through the markets like smoke.
The king wore the crown.
The nobles held the power.
Every great house boasted divine blood. Some boasted several.
The throne was a seat.
Power was something else.
Chén Yè had survived by being useful.
If you were valuable, you were kept.
If you weren't—
A boot nudged his ribs.
"Up. Inspection in an hour."
They left laughing.
---
He pushed himself upright.
The chamber was vast. High windows. Pale light. Stone everywhere.
And children.
Rows upon rows.
Fine silks. Torn rags. Tear-streaked faces. Blank stares.
All young.
All tested.
All useful.
Drafted.
His gaze swept the hall.
Stopped.
In the corner, back straight despite everything, sat the baron's daughter. Dress torn. Hands folded neatly in her lap.
Composed.
She hadn't seen him.
Or she had—and refused to look.
He shifted half a step toward her.
"Xīng Hé!"
She turned.
So that was her name.
She spoke quietly to another child, voice low, controlled.
He had traded her for twenty gold marks.
Now they stood in the same hall.
Marked for the same war.
Above them, a bell began to toll.
The sound rolled through stone like a verdict.
Inspection had begun.
---