It was not loud, nor sharp, nor insistent. It arrived with the calm confidence of something that expected to be answered eventually. Lin Yuan had already been awake when it came, seated at the small table beside the window, counting coins for the third time that night despite knowing the number would not change.
He froze.
The sound lingered in the air longer than it should have, settling into the room like a weight. Lin waited, half expecting a third knock to follow immediately. It did not. Whoever stood outside was in no hurry.
He rose slowly, heart beating harder with each step toward the door.
When he pulled it open, three women stood in the corridor.
They wore matching attire, practical and unadorned, in muted shades that blended easily into the stone and timber of the building. Their clothes were clean and well maintained, without ornament or insignia, but the cut alone marked them as officials. Not guards, not merchants, not cultivators, but something adjacent to all three.
The woman at the front was slightly taller than the others, her hair pulled back tightly, her expression composed to the point of sterility. Her eyes moved over him once, quick and thorough, as if confirming an inventory rather than assessing a person.
"Lin Yuan," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
There was no suspicion in her gaze. No surprise. She did not hesitate over his name or examine him more closely. Whatever she expected to see, he matched it well enough.
"We are here regarding your outstanding obligations."
Lin frowned faintly.
"Obligations," he repeated. "To whom."
She did not answer immediately. Instead, she stepped forward. The two women behind her followed without needing instruction, entering the room with quiet efficiency. One positioned herself near the door. The other took the space near the window, her presence blocking the faint light that filtered through the shutters.
They did not ask permission.
The woman at the front turned to face him again.
"You know what this is about," she said.
Lin hesitated.
He did know there was debt. That knowledge existed as an unpleasant certainty, something he had accepted without fully examining since waking in this body. It came to him in fragments. A tightness in the chest when passing certain streets. A vague sense of dread when coins changed hands. A hollow recognition when gambling dens were mentioned in passing.
But he had never known the scope of it.
"I know I owe money," he said carefully. "I am working. I have been back settling in to regular life."
The woman inclined her head a fraction.
"Your efforts are noted."
That was not reassurance.
She produced a ledger from within her sleeve and opened it, the soft sound of paper against paper unnervingly loud in the quiet room.
"This debt was incurred over a period of years," she said. "Primarily through gambling. Borrowed sums. Deferred payments. Interest."
Lin felt a pressure build behind his eyes.
He stepped closer despite himself, his gaze drawn to the neat columns of numbers that filled the page. Some entries were crossed out. Others had notes written beside them in a firm, practiced hand. Dates stretched back farther than he had expected.
"This is wrong," he said quietly.
The woman did not look up.
"It is accurate."
"I have not borrowed recently."
"No," she agreed. "The borrowing ceased some time ago."
She turned the page.
"What remained was accumulation."
Lin's throat tightened.
Memory surfaced then, faint but unmistakable. A room thick with smoke. The clatter of dice. The desperate certainty that the next roll would fix everything. The shame of walking home with empty hands and borrowed time.
He looked up.
"How much," he asked.
She told him.
For a moment, he did not understand the number. It sat in his mind without context, too large to grasp, too final to argue with. Then the math resolved itself, brutal and immediate.
It would take years to repay. Longer, at his current pace.
"That cannot be enforced," he said.
"It is already enforced," she replied calmly. "You are here. The debt remains."
Lin laughed once, the sound sharp and humorless.
"I do not recall signing anything," he said, barely believing his own words.
She closed the ledger.
"You agreed when you borrowed," she said. "Consent was recorded. Terms were explained. It doesn't matter that you weren't entirely… present at the time."
The words landed heavily.
Lin said nothing.
There was no accusation in her tone. No challenge. Only procedure.
"You have missed multiple repayment windows," she continued. "You are in default."
"I was not contacted," Lin said.
"You were," she replied. "Not all notices require acknowledgement."
Silence settled over the room.
"Kneel," she said.
The word was not raised. It was not emphasized.
Lin stared at her.
"What," he asked in shock.
"Kneel," she repeated. "This discussion requires it."
His hands curled slowly at his sides.
"I am not refusing," he said secretly gritting his teeth. "I am trying to understand."
"This is understanding," she replied. "From your correct position."
For a long moment, Lin remained standing.
Then he lowered himself to the floor.
The stone was cold beneath his knees. From this angle, the room felt different. Smaller. Less than his own.
The woman looked down at him, her expression unchanged.
"You will be granted one more cycle," she said. "No penalties will be added during this period."
Lin exhaled slowly.
"And if I fail again."
Her eyes did not flicker.
"Enforcement escalates."
"To what."
"You will be seized," she said. "Registered as collateral. Contracted."
His chest tightened, although the way she said it sounded fancy, the meaning was clear. He would be enslaved.
"Contracted how."
"You will be bound to labor," she replied. "Or sold to recover losses."
The words were precise. Final.
"This is lawful," she added. "The agreement allows it."
The woman studied him for a brief moment, her gaze lingering as though she were confirming something already decided.
"There is one final clarification," she said.
Lin lifted his head slightly, careful not to meet her eyes for too long.
"This obligation is bound to the individual," she continued. "Not the dwelling. Not the street. Not the town."
She let the words settle.
"You are expected to remain available for enforcement," she added. "That expectation does not expire on its own."
Lin said nothing.
He did not need to.
The message was clear enough.
The woman closed the ledger and returned it to her sleeve.
"You will receive notice if terms change," she said. "Until then, compliance is assumed."
They turned and left.
The door shut behind them with a soft, deliberate sound that seemed far louder than it should have been.
Lin remained kneeling.
His breathing grew uneven, shallow, his chest tightening as the implications took shape in his mind. The room felt smaller than it had moments ago, the walls closer, the air heavier. His hands trembled where they rested against his thighs, the fabric damp beneath his fingers.
It was not fear that overwhelmed him, not entirely.
It was a realization.
There was no safe margin. No version of endurance where this ended quietly. The numbers would never shrink fast enough. The expectations would never soften. Waiting would not buy him freedom. It would only narrow the terms under which he was allowed to exist.
"Don't lose hope," he muttered under his breath.
He did not collapse.
When he finally rose to his feet, the room was unchanged.
The bed. The table. The door.
All of it exactly as it had been before.
But the space no longer felt like a second home.
It felt like a place someone would eventually come to claim… but not him.
Lin stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door, listening to the quiet settle back into the room.
He made up his mind.
The debt remained.
But staying was no longer an option.