The plan was crude. The cost was high.
"Are you certain?" Faye asked, her hands trembling slightly as she stood by the bedside. "Once we do this, there is no turning back. Your reputation in this town… you will be branded a monster."
Roeyachi stood by the mahogany table, listening to the heavy, angry footsteps thundering down the hallway.
"Reputation is for people who plan to stay," Roeyachi said calmly. "So long as my blade stays true, whispers mean nothing."
"But—"
"Open this door!" A voice boomed from the corridor. "I know he's in there!"
Isharus.
Roeyachi smiled. It wasn't a hero's smile. It was the smile of a wolf who had just found a way to open the sheep pen.
"Time to get into character."
Roeyachi drew the One Iron Blade. He didn't move toward the door; he moved toward the bed. He grabbed the blade with his left hand and sliced his own palm.
Blood welled up, thick and crimson. He didn't wince. He walked over and clenched his fist over the pristine white sheets, letting the blood drip in a chaotic, violent pattern.
"Get on," he ordered.
Faye hesitated for a fraction of a second, then kicked off her shoes and scrambled onto the mattress. She sat with her back against the headboard, pulling the duvet up to her chin, making sure the fresh bloodstains were dangerously visible.
Roeyachi wasn't done. He grabbed a small fruit knife from the table, reopened the wound on his hand to coat the small blade, and tossed it carelessly onto the floor near the bed.
Clatter.
He grabbed his own collar and yanked, tearing the fabric of his tunic. He threw his outer robe onto the floor.
"Your sleeve," he commanded.
Faye extended her arm. Roeyachi grabbed the fine silk of her uniform and ripped it at the shoulder, exposing pale skin. He messed up his hair, rubbed a smear of blood on his cheek, and sat back in the velvet chair, crossing his legs.
He looked like a man post-conquest. Disheveled. Arrogant. Satiated.
BAM.
The double doors splintered inward.
Isharus Arshara stormed in, his face twisted in a snarl, his hand gripping a jeweled sword. A large, armored bodyguard followed close behind, scanning the room for threats.
"Who dares!" Isharus roared. "Who dares touch my—"
The words died in his throat.
He saw the torn clothes on the floor. He saw Faye huddled against the headboard, trembling, her dress ripped.
And he saw the blood on the sheets.
"Too late," Roeyachi said.
He didn't stand up. He didn't reach for a weapon. He just smirked, leaning back in the chair with the lazy satisfaction of a predator.
"Young Master... help me," Faye whimpered, her voice cracking perfectly. She pointed a shaking finger at Roeyachi, then buried her face in her hands. "He... he..."
Isharus stared at the red stain. His face went pale, then purple. The reality of what he thought he was seeing shattered his possessive fantasy.
"You animal," Isharus whispered, his voice trembling with rage. "How dare you force yourself on a woman?"
Roeyachi let out a short, dismissive laugh.
"And you weren't?"
He stood up slowly, wiping the blood from his cheek.
"You kept pestering her. She kept saying no. The entire town knows you've been trying to corner her for months."
"YOU!" Isharus shouted, stepping forward.
"The only difference between us," Roeyachi said, stepping over the torn clothes to stand toe-to-toe with the noble, "is that I wasn't afraid to take what I wanted."
He gestured vaguely at the bed.
"But I'm done here. You can have her now."
Something in Isharus snapped. The humiliation, the disrespect, the loss of his "prize"—it was too much.
"I will kill you!"
He drew his jeweled blade, the metal singing.
"Young Master, wait!" the bodyguard barked, stepping in front of him. He wasn't looking at Roeyachi's face; he was looking at the floor, where Roeyachi's discarded outer robe lay.
Pinned to the fabric was a silver medallion. A Crescent Moon.
"The Moon Sect," the bodyguard hissed. "He is a disciple."
Isharus froze. He looked at the emblem, then back at Roeyachi. A sneer curled his lip, replacing the rage with disdain.
"Ha. The Moon Sect?" Isharus laughed, lowering his sword slightly. "They aren't what they used to be. A falling house led by a ghost. They're just a bunch of broken cripp—"
Whoosh.
The air didn't even have time to scream.
Before the word "cripples" could leave Isharus's mouth, a cold wind brushed his Adam's apple.
Roeyachi was there.
The One Iron Blade was pressed against the Young Master's throat, the edge biting just enough to draw a single bead of real blood.
The bodyguard's hand was clamped around Roeyachi's wrist, stopping the lethal stroke by a millimeter. The guard's eyes were wide, sweat beading on his forehead. He hadn't seen the movement. He had only reacted to the intent.
Silence descended on the room. Heavy. Suffocating.
Roeyachi and Isharus stared into each other's eyes. The Young Master wasn't looking at a rapist anymore. He was looking at a killer.
"I apologize for my Young Master's rudeness," the bodyguard said, his voice strained as he struggled to hold Roeyachi's arm in place. "He spoke out of turn. I hope you can forgive him."
Roeyachi held the gaze for a second longer. Then, the killing intent vanished.
He smiled. Then he laughed.
"It's okay," Roeyachi said, pulling his blade back and sheathing it with a sharp click. "Like I said. I already got what I wanted."
Isharus stumbled back, hand going to his throat. His face was red, his ego bruised beyond repair. He opened his mouth to scream an order—to have the guards swarm him—but the bodyguard grabbed his shoulder.
"Sir," the guard whispered urgently. "Look at the bed. She... she is no longer pure."
Isharus looked at Faye. At the blood.
"Your parents will hear about this," the guard continued, his voice low. "The Arshara family cannot accept a woman who has been... soiled. Unless you wish to go against the Family Head for damaged goods?"
Isharus stiffened. The fire in his eyes died, replaced by a cold, disgusted realization.
He looked at Faye one last time. He didn't see a victim. He saw trash.
He sheathed his sword.
"Let's go," Isharus spat.
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the shattered doors, his cape swirling behind him. The bodyguard offered Roeyachi a stiff, wary nod, then followed his master.
The footsteps faded down the hall.
Roeyachi stood in the silence of the ruined room. He picked up his robe from the floor and dusted off the emblem.
"Scene over," Roeyachi said.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Faye's ragged breathing. She sat on the bed, pulling the torn sheets tighter around herself, staring at the bloodstains—fake, yet condemning.
"Why?" she whispered.
Roeyachi was busy gathering his scattered tools from the table. He swept the raw crystals into a velvet cloth, handling the volatile stones with careful precision, his demeanor shifting from the arrogant villain back to the cold tactician.
"Why go that far?" Faye asked, her voice gaining strength, though her hands still shook. "You didn't just scare him off. You destroyed your name. By morning, the entire town will know Roeyachi of the Moon Sect is a defiler. A beast."
"If I had fought him with honor, it would have been a declaration of war between our families," Roeyachi said, not looking back. "Isharus is proud. He would have returned with an army to wash away the insult."
He finally turned to look at her.
"But in this world, nobody blinks when a Young Master takes what he wants. They don't call it a crime; they call it an indulgence."
He gestured to the torn room.
"By playing the monster, I made it a scandal, not a war. Isharus won't fight for 'damaged goods.' To him, you are trash now. Which means you are free."
Faye lowered her gaze. She understood the logic—it was the cruel, cold arithmetic of their world—but she couldn't understand the motive.
"I am just a stranger," she said softly. "I am a maid in a brothel. You are the heir to a Sect. Why would you destroy your own reputation to save someone who matters to no one?"
Roeyachi paused. His hand lingered on the hilt of the One Iron Blade.
He didn't see a maid. He saw a reflection.
For seventeen years, he had been the "Young Master" of the Moon Palace, but in truth, he had been its prisoner. Without a core, he was a caged beast—well-fed, carefully protected, but never allowed to feel the sun or test his strength. His life was a litany of no.
No training. No leaving. No future.
Only after he proved himself did his Master relent, granting him the same brittle opportunities as the others. And as for Faye... a maid in a brothel would never even get the chance to prove anything. She would never be granted an opportunity to fight for herself.
"I didn't do it for you," Roeyachi said, his voice quiet but clear in the dim room. "I did it because I know what it's like."
Faye looked up, her eyes searching his. "Like what?"
"To be powerless against fate."
He turned away, adjusting his sash.
"Pack your things. The Madam will..."
"He is right."
The Madam's voice drifted from the darkness of the corner.
She stepped into the light, her face impassive. She glanced at the blood on the bed, then at Roeyachi. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—not just calculation, but a begrudging respect.
"The lie has taken root," the Madam said. "Isharus is already drinking himself into a stupor at the Golden Tankard, telling anyone who will listen about the 'animal' from the mountains."
She turned to Faye.
"A carriage is waiting at the rear exit. You are going to the Southern Capital. I have arranged a position for you in a textile guild. You will be anonymous there."
Faye stood up, clutching the torn silk of her dress. She looked at Roeyachi one last time.
"They will hate you," she said softly.
"Let them," Roeyachi replied. "Hatred is focused. It makes them predictable."
"Thank you," she whispered.
She bowed deeply—not a servant's bow, but a survivor's gratitude—and vanished into the hidden corridor behind the Madam.
The door clicked shut.
With that click, the truth was sealed. The only witness to Roeyachi's innocence was gone. The "Original Sin" was now history.
"You have burned your bridge," the Madam noted, lighting her pipe. "You can never walk in the light in this town again."
"I prefer the dark," Roeyachi said. "It hides the blade better."
He walked to the balcony door and slid it open. The night air rushed in, cold and smelling of rain and charcoal. Beyond the lights of the brothel lay the dense, suffocating blackness of the Beast Forest.
"The Aqueduct entrance is three miles east," the Madam instructed. "It is overgrown. Look for the statue of the Weeping King. The tunnel is beneath his throne."
"And Libinea?"
"She is a creature of habit. She patrols the sister's quarters in the Rotting Keep exactly at midnight. She trusts no one to guard her own sleep."
"A paranoid hunter," Roeyachi mused.
"The best kind," the Madam agreed. "Or the worst prey. Be careful, Young Master. The forest does not knock."
Roeyachi didn't answer. He stepped onto the railing, his silhouette framed against the moon.
"Tell Clairelnayl the first piece is on the board."
He dropped.