Rain tapped softly against broken roof tiles, dripping through cracks and soaking the rotting cloth that served as a door.
A child lay curled on the stone floor, ribs pressing against skin, breath thin enough to vanish into the cold. His hair was matted with grime, his face pale beneath bruises that had never fully healed. For a long time, he didn't move.
Then his eyelids trembled.
Jun Zehan's eyes opened.
For a moment, there was only darkness and the smell of damp decay. The air was thick with mold, old smoke, and the sour stench of too many bodies packed into too little space. His throat burned when he swallowed, and his stomach cramped so hard it felt like something inside him was twisting.
He tried to lift his arm.
It rose, slow and weak, shaking like a reed in the wind.
His hand was small. Too small.
Zehan stared at it, his mind blank for a single heartbeat, then—
Memories slammed into him like a blade.
The training halls. The mats. The cage lights. Sweat dripping down his spine as he threw the same strike a thousand times until the movement stopped being a movement and became instinct. The sound of bone against bone. The quiet discipline of a man who had reached the peak and still refused to relax.
He remembered his name.
He remembered his life.
He remembered dying.
His pupils narrowed slightly, the only sign of shock he allowed himself. This isn't a dream.
He pushed himself upright, back pressed against the wall, and forced his breathing to steady. His body felt wrong. Too light. Too fragile. Every muscle was thin, every joint stiff, like the frame of a starving stray dog.
Five years old… maybe.
His gaze swept the shelter. It was barely a room. Broken boards. A sack in the corner. A cracked cup. A stub of candle that had been used until the wick was nothing but ash. The stone floor was cold enough to numb the feet.
Then he saw him.
A smaller child lay beside him, curled up under torn cloth, face hollow and lips cracked. His breathing was shallow but steady.
Zehan's eyes softened for a fraction of a second.
"Zelin…"
The name came out as a whisper.
The boy didn't wake, but Zehan watched his chest rise and fall, then slowly looked away. His expression returned to calm.
He had no time to be stunned.
He had no time to grieve.
If he stayed still, he would freeze. If he panicked, he would make noise. If he made noise, someone would come.
Broken Lantern Quarter didn't spare the weak.
Outside, the slum was alive in the way rats were alive—scratching, fighting, surviving. Voices echoed through the narrow alleyways. A drunken laugh. A scream that ended too quickly. The clatter of metal and the heavy footsteps of men who walked like they owned the street.
Zehan's stomach growled again, louder this time.
He reached for the sack in the corner and pulled it open. Inside were two pieces of stale bread, hard enough to cut gums. He didn't eat.
Instead, he placed the bread close to Zelin's head.
Then he stood.
His legs wobbled. He adjusted his stance instinctively, lowering his center of gravity, spreading weight evenly. The movement was natural—reflex built over a lifetime.
The body is weak. The skill is not.
He slipped outside.
Rain misted his face. The alley was narrow, packed with leaning buildings and hanging cloth roofs that trapped the cold air. Broken lantern frames dangled overhead, their glass long gone. Mud mixed with refuse, and every step threatened to splash filth onto bare skin.
People were everywhere.
Not walking openly, but watching.
Eyes from door cracks. Shapes under awnings. Children with sharp gazes and empty hands. Men with knives and hungry smiles.
A five-year-old alone was not a child here.
He was prey.
Zehan didn't hurry. He walked steadily, as if he belonged. His eyes stayed low, but he saw everything—hands, waistlines, corners where someone could rush from, and the slight shift of bodies when they realized he wasn't trembling.
The market strip was a few streets down. It wasn't a real market, just a cluster of stalls where the desperate sold scraps to the desperate. Smoke rose from cheap oil fires. Meat skewers turned slowly, guarded by thick-armed men. Dried fish hung on hooks. Hard buns sat in baskets with cloth covers.
Zehan stopped near an old vendor with fish.
The man was half-asleep, rubbing his hands, muttering about the cold.
Zehan waited.
A moment.
Another.
Then his fingers moved.
He reached for a strip of dried fish—
"Oi."
The voice was close.
Zehan froze, not because he was scared, but because he was calculating.
He turned.
Three boys stood under an awning, older by several years and heavier by several meals. The tallest one held a wooden club, his grin wide and ugly. The other two flanked him like dogs.
"I know you," the tall boy said. "Quiet beggar brat. You think you can steal here?"
Zehan's eyes didn't flicker. His expression was blank, almost dull.
The tall boy stepped closer, tapping the club into his palm. "This street isn't free. Hand over your sack."
Zehan lifted the sack slowly.
The tall boy's gaze dropped to it.
That was enough.
Zehan stepped in.
His foot hooked behind the boy's ankle. His shoulder slammed into the boy's thigh. The movement wasn't flashy—it was efficient, cruel, and perfectly timed.
The tall boy crashed onto the stone with a crack, head snapping sideways.
Before he could scream properly, Zehan's heel pinned the boy's wrist. The bone bent the wrong way.
The boy shrieked.
The second one rushed.
Zehan snatched the club and swung once—straight into the throat.
The boy gagged and folded.
The third reached for a knife.
Zehan didn't retreat.
He stepped inside the blade's path, knocked the arm wide with the club, and struck the forearm hard enough to make the knife fall into the mud. Then he hit the boy's face twice, fast and clean, until his body dropped.
Silence swallowed the market.
No one shouted for guards.
No one rushed to help.
Broken Lantern Quarter didn't work that way.
Zehan crouched beside the leader, who was shaking like his body didn't understand what had happened.
The tall boy stared at him, eyes wide with terror. "Y-you're five…"
Zehan leaned closer, voice quiet.
"I'm hungry."
The boy swallowed, choking on his fear. "Behind the grain stall… storage crate… they throw scraps…"
Zehan stood.
He didn't kill them.
Not because he was merciful.
Because corpses brought attention, and attention killed beggars faster than hunger.
He found the crate. Bruised roots. A half bun. A strip of dried meat. Not much, but enough for two children to live one more day.
He shoved it into the sack and left.
The rain hadn't stopped.
By the time he returned to the shelter, Zelin was awake, sitting up weakly, rubbing his eyes with dirty hands. His gaze locked onto Zehan like he was afraid his brother might vanish too.
"Brother… where did you go?" Zelin whispered.
Zehan placed the sack in front of him.
"Eat slowly."
Zelin opened it and froze.
Food.
His hands trembled. He took a bite too fast, then coughed, eyes watering. He tried again, slower this time, chewing like each mouthful mattered more than anything else in the world.
Zehan watched him, back against the wall, expression calm.
Inside, his thoughts moved like steel.
Earth… I was at the peak. I could break men twice my size with timing and precision.
Here… I'm a beggar child in a world that eats beggars.
His fingers curled slightly.
He could feel it now—something faint in the air, like pressure, like warmth hidden inside the rain and wind. It wasn't the same as Earth. The world itself felt heavier, deeper, as if strength existed in the atmosphere.
Cultivation.
Real power.
Not reputation. Not trophies. Not "peak human."
Power that could crush armies.
Zehan's eyes narrowed.
Fine.
If this world has a path upward… then I'll climb it.
A shadow stopped outside the cloth door.
Slow footsteps. Heavy. Confident.
A man's voice came through the rain, amused and cold.
"Kid… I heard you broke three of my dogs."
Zehan didn't move.
He reached for the wooden club he'd taken earlier, fingers tightening around it.
The cloth door shifted.
"Open up."
Zehan's gaze sharpened.
So this is the real beginning.