The night market of Grey Lantern Street never slept.
Even at midnight, oil lamps burned with a sickly yellow glow, smoke rising from skewers of meat that no one asked the origin of. Masked men bargained in whispers. Women with painted faces laughed too loudly. Steel clinked under cloaks. Poison changed hands in ceramic bottles no bigger than a thumb.
This was not a place for the righteous.
This was Unorthodox territory.
And in the middle of this chaos, a thin boy ran barefoot through the crowd, clutching a small wooden box to his chest.
"Move! Move!" he shouted, slipping between drunken mercenaries and cloaked figures.
No one stopped him.
Everyone knew him.
"Oi, rat! Don't drop it this time!" someone yelled.
The boy didn't reply. He never did.
His name was Han Yoo-Jin.
Age: seventeen.
Status: nobody.
He wasn't a martial artist.
Wasn't from a clan.
Didn't know any techniques.
He was a runner.
He delivered packages for people who didn't want to be seen delivering them.
Sometimes it was medicine.
Sometimes it was poison.
Sometimes it was severed fingers.
He never looked inside.
Looking inside got people killed.
He turned into a narrow alley, heart pounding. The wooden box felt heavier than usual.
The client today was from the Black Viper Family, a small but notorious poison clan in the Unorthodox Alliance. When they paid double, it meant one thing:
The contents were dangerous.
He reached a broken wooden door and knocked three times.
Pause.
Two times.
Pause.
One time.
The door opened just a crack. A single eye looked at him.
"You're late."
"Market was crowded," Yoo-Jin said, breathing hard.
A pale hand shot out, grabbed the box, and tossed him a small pouch of coins. The door slammed shut.
No thanks. No goodbye.
Yoo-Jin weighed the pouch in his hand.
Good pay.
He allowed himself a small smile.
Tonight, he could eat meat instead of stale bread.
He turned to leave—
And the world exploded.