Rain fell in thin, merciless sheets, washing blood into the cracks of the concrete.
The boy lay motionless in the alley, his chest barely rising, every breath sharp enough to feel like broken glass slicing through his lungs. His right hand was clenched around a dagger—short, blackened, unadorned. An assassin's tool. Disposable. Just like him.
Or at least, that was what they had taught him.
Move when the killing intent fades.
That lesson had been carved into him long before he learned how to read.
The air was heavy with death. Three bodies lay scattered nearby, their throats cut with precision so clean it almost looked gentle. Almost. The rain diluted the blood, but it couldn't erase the stench of iron and fear.
The boy's eyes snapped open.
Dark. Calm. Too calm for someone his age.
He listened.
Footsteps—no. Not footsteps. Heartbeats. Two of them. Far. Retreating.
They thought he was dead.
A slow, shallow breath escaped his lips. The moment stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, before he rolled onto his side and forced himself upright. Pain screamed through his nerves, but he welcomed it. Pain meant he was still alive.
Alive meant he had succeeded.
The assassination camp was gone behind him, swallowed by distance and fire. He could still see it when he closed his eyes—the iron gates, the white lights that never turned off, the screams that faded into silence. Children were taken in. Weapons came out. Those who failed never left.
He had left.
That alone made him a traitor.
And traitors were hunted.
The boy staggered out of the alley, melting into the city's shadows as naturally as breathing. Neon lights flickered overhead, reflected in rain-soaked streets. Cars passed. People laughed under umbrellas. The world moved on, unaware that a child trained to kill had just slipped through its fingers.
Modern civilisation. Bright. Loud. Fragile.
He hated it.
Not because it was weak—but because it was indifferent.
His steps slowed as dizziness crept in. He leaned against a wall, fingers digging into cold stone as something deep within him stirred. A familiar sensation. Thick. Heavy. Viscous.
Dark Qi.
It churned in his lower abdomen, a turbulent mass that refused to settle. It had formed during his final months in the camp—an abnormality born from endless killing intent, compressed hatred, and survival instinct.
The dark qi answered his will, flooding his limbs just enough to keep him upright. Not more. He never let it take more than necessary. He had learned early that relying on it too much made the thoughts darker, colder, sharper in the wrong ways.
Control was survival.
A siren wailed in the distance.
The boy pushed himself away from the wall and moved again. Slowly. Carefully. He avoided cameras, lights, and crowds. His small frame vanished into backstreets and forgotten stairwells until even the rain seemed to lose track of him.
Hours passed.
By dawn, he collapsed beneath an overpass, hidden behind concrete pillars layered with grime and old posters. The city hummed above him, unaware.
For the first time since escaping, exhaustion won.
He dreamed of blades.
Not swinging them—becoming them.
When he woke, the rain had stopped.
Warmth surrounded him.
That alone was wrong.
His eyes snapped open, his body moving before thought. The dagger appeared in his hand in a smooth, silent motion, angled toward the source of his unease.
"Easy."
The voice was calm. Deep. Unhurried.
The boy froze.
He was lying on a clean bed. White sheets. A faint scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air. Sunlight filtered through partially drawn curtains. No restraints. No suppression seals. No killing intent.
A man stood near the window, hands visible, posture relaxed. He wore a dark coat, impeccably tailored, and his presence was… heavy. Not oppressive, but vast—like standing near the ocean and realising how small you were.
"You've been unconscious for two days," the man said. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have woken up."
The boy didn't lower the dagger.
"Where am I?" he asked.
His voice was hoarse. Flat. Too old.
The man turned fully now, studying him with sharp, assessing eyes. Not greedy. Not cruel. Curious.
"My home," he replied. "And before you ask—no, it's not affiliated with any camps, organisations, or governments that would be interested in reclaiming you."
The boy's grip tightened.
Reclaiming.
That word mattered.
"You were found half-dead under an overpass," the man continued. "Your injuries were… not normal for a child your age. Neither was the energy inside you. The dark qi inside you is not uncommon, but it is a double-edged sword able to destroy its user if not properly regulated. A child like you, able to contain it, you are special"
Silence stretched between them.
The boy slowly lowered the dagger—but did not release it.
"What do you want?" he asked.
The man considered him for a long moment.
"An answer," he said. "And perhaps… a decision."
He stepped closer, stopping at a respectful distance away.
"There are people in this world born into power. Others claw their way toward it. And some—rare ones—survive things that should have broken them."
The man's gaze sharpened.
"I'd like to know which you are."
The boy met his eyes without flinching.
"I survived," he said.
Something like approval flickered in the man's expression.
"Good," he replied. "Then I'll be honest."
He straightened, authority settling naturally on his shoulders.
"My name is Lu Shen. I stand at the head of one of the influential families under the World Government's jurisdiction. And starting today, if you choose it…"
He paused.
"…you will become my adopted son."
The room went silent.
The boy did not react immediately.
Adoption. Family. Protection.
Concepts he understood only as words.
"What's the price?" he asked at last.
Lu Shen smiled faintly.
"Live," he said. "Grow stronger. And when the world finally notices you…"
His eyes gleamed.
"…don't break."
The boy looked down at his hands.
They were small. Scarred. Steady.
For the first time since the camp, no killing intent pressed down on him. No orders echoed in his skull. No blade hovered at his throat.
Only a choice.
After a long moment, he nodded.
"Fine," he said. "But I won't be weak."
Lu Shen laughed quietly.
"Good," he replied. "Weakness doesn't survive in this world."
Outside, the city awakened.
And somewhere deep within the boy's Dantian, dark qi stirred—unaware that one day, it would no longer be alone.