Rain had thinned to a drizzle, but the cold clung to Jun Zehan like a shadow that refused to leave. Every breath felt sharp, like inhaling shards of ice, chilling the lungs and reminding him that the body he now housed was fragile — starved, undeveloped, and barely five years old.
Master Ren walked ahead, umbrella tilted just so, footsteps measured. There was no urgency in him, yet he also never slowed. It was the gait of someone who had walked life's twisting roads enough to know exactly where he was—not confused, not arrogant, just unshakeably steady.
Behind him, Zelin stumbled along, clutching Zehan's sleeve as though afraid the world might pull his brother away at any moment.
Zehan didn't glance back, yet he felt Zelin's fear like a pulse beneath his ribs.
Alive.
That was the first win.
The streets outside Broken Lantern Quarter gradually became straighter, wider, cleaner. Dirt and refuse gave way to stone and wood that looked cared for, not abandoned. Lanterns with intact glass flickered with warm light. People walked with a purpose, not with that hungry desperation Zehan had grown used to seeing.
Here, strength was respected.
Not begged for.
They reached a gently rising road. Guarded entrances stood on either side, men in layered cloth armor watching silently. The plaque above the great doors read:
IRON STEP HALL
Zehan's gaze narrowed, eyes sharp.
So this was the place.
Not a towering fortress.
Not a lofty palace.
Just a pair of sturdy doors, iron-banded and unadorned, like a blade waiting in its scabbard.
As they stepped inside, the first thing that hit Zehan was the sound.
Heavy.
A cadence of repeated strikes — wood against wood, wood against bone — like a heartbeat measured by iron.
Thud… thud… thud…
Dozens of youths trained in strict rows in the courtyard beyond. Some practiced punches until their knuckles glowed red. Some held stances so low that the thighs quivered. Others swung practice spears, the air whistling with controlled fury.
A tall, stern instructor wandered between the lines, voice sharp and unrelenting.
"Not low enough! Your stance isn't stable!"
"Again! You think strength is lightning? Strength is discipline!"
"Find the rhythm of effort, or you will only find failure!"
Every word echoed like a hammer on steel.
Zehan watched quietly. Most of these disciples weren't weak — not by common standards — but none of them moved like someone who'd truly faced death. None yet understood how to make their body respond like a weapon. And that difference — subtle but absolute — was what separated the average from the formidable.
Ren didn't lead them into the courtyard. Instead, he stopped at the edge where the falling rain had darkened the stone. Then he looked back — not at Zehan, not at Zelin, but at the world they had just left behind.
His voice was soft, but not gentle.
"People see the world as stable only because they don't know how quickly it can swallow them whole."
Zehan blinked.
This wasn't a lecture. It was a lesson.
A truth spoken with quiet force.
Ren then turned, eyes sweeping the training courtyard.
"Everyone here knows pain," Ren continued. "Some learn from it. Most run from it. A few — very few — let it sharpen them."
There was a pause, long and deliberate, like his words were gravel being weighed.
"You two will not be coddled. You will be forged."
They entered fully then, and the disciples instinctively parted — not out of fear, but recognition. The courtyard wasn't just a training ground… it was a crucible.
Inside, the air felt thicker.
Heavier.
Like every breath could be shaped into strength.
They reached the side building, a simple structure with racks of wooden weapons, buckets of coarse sand, iron hooks along the wall, and stones that looked too heavy to lift.
Inside, the warmth from a brazier filled the space — burnt wood and herbs, a smell that reminded Zehan of countless training halls back on Earth.
A young man behind a counter looked up and instantly straightened.
"Master Ren."
Ren didn't smile. He simply said:
"Food."
The young man blinked, then nodded and moved swiftly, bringing out two steaming bowls of thick porridge and a plate of salted meat.
To most, the meal was modest.
But to Zehan, who hadn't eaten warmth in days, it was a banquet.
Zelin stared at it like it was a dream. Zehan didn't hesitate — not because he was greedy, but because survival did not wait for politeness.
He sat Zelin down first.
"Steady. Eat," Zehan said quietly.
Zelin's small hand trembled as he took the spoon. His eyes were still wide with shock, but when he started eating, even his body seemed to relax a fraction.
Zehan took his own first bite.
Warmth spread like sunrise through his chest. For the first time since he had awakened into this world, he felt comfort and not just cold and hunger.
He could think clearly again.
Ren watched them eat, silent as mountain stone.
The young man behind the counter stole curious glances, but said nothing.
The meal ended.
Zehan placed the empty bowl down first, then Zelin's.
Ren stood and spoke without preamble.
"You are five."
Zehan didn't correct him.
Ren's gaze shifted to Zelin.
"He is younger."
Zelin's lips trembled.
Ren didn't soften.
"You killed a man."
Zelin flinched.
Zehan met Ren's gaze.
"Yes," he said.
Silence.
The young man behind the counter looked stunned.
Ren's eyes were calm — not judgmental, just observant.
"In this world," Ren said, "death is not uncommon. What is uncommon is a child with eyes that do not flinch at it."
Zehan's mind was steady.
If one cannot feel fear, one does not survive — one dies. But if fear is controlled… it can become clarity.
Ren continued, "Do you regret it?"
Zehan didn't blink.
"No," he said.
Ren's eyes narrowed — not sharply, but like a blade being inspected.
"Good," he said. "Regret is a luxury only the dead can afford. The living cannot pause."
Zelin clutched his wrist, still trembling.
Zehan placed his hand gently over Zelin's, not as protection, but as a promise:
I will not let you fall.
Ren observed this quietly.
Then he turned to a rack and lifted two iron rings — simple, unadorned — yet heavy enough that even the wood beneath them seemed to groan.
Ren offered one to Zehan.
Zehan took it.
His arm immediately sagged under the weight. His shoulder flared with pain. His fingers clenched instinctively.
No outward change.
But inside…
His body protested.
Ren watched without expression.
"This is training," Ren said. "Not fighting. Not survival. Training — the hammer that shapes the flesh."
Then Ren slipped the other ring over his own wrist.
Effortless.
Like paper.
Like breath.
Zehan's eyes narrowed — not with envy, but with awakening.
Ren didn't soften the truth.
"In Broken Lantern Quarter," he said, "strength was measured by who could hurt most."
His voice shifted, calm but unyielding.
"Here, strength is measured by who chooses to endure pain."
Zehan's mind was clear.
That wasn't philosophy.
That was foundation.
Ren pointed out the window at the courtyard.
"Some here will become warriors. Some will guard towns. Many will break before they reach thirty."
He looked directly at Zehan.
"If you stay, you will train. If you train, you will change. If you change… you might live long enough to shape your own fate."
Zehan tested the iron ring again.
His muscles burned, but he didn't let the weight drop.
He asked simply:
"What do I do?"
Ren's eyes were steady.
"Walk."
Zehan blinked once.
Ren pointed to the stone floor of the courtyard — a long strip worn smooth by endless footsteps.
"This is the Iron Step," Ren said. "Before you strike, before you stand, you must walk as though the earth itself is your ally."
No metaphysics.
Just physical reality.
Ren's gaze was sharp, patient, unshakeable.
"Come."
Outside, the rain had ceased entirely. The courtyard glistened with damp stone. The disciples still trained — breath steaming in the cold air — but now their movements felt almost musical, each strike a pulse in the rhythm of effort.
Ren walked to the long strip of stone.
Then he stepped forward.
Not fast.
Not flashy.
But when his foot landed, the sound was different.
Not a slap.
Not a stomp.
A deep, assured contact.
Like iron sinking into the earth.
The stone beneath his sandal cracked faintly.
Zehan's pupils tightened.
There is weight in that step.
Ren raised his head.
"This," he said, "is the first lesson — Iron Step."
He gestured to Zehan.
"Stand."
Zehan stepped forward onto the strip.
Cold stone kissed his bare feet.
Zelin hovered behind him — hesitant, frightened — but determined.
Ren's gaze fell on Zelin.
"You too," he said.
Zelin blinked. "M-me?"
Ren didn't smile.
"If you wish to stay beside him, you will train. If not, you will become a burden."
Zelin swallowed hard — and then stepped beside Zehan.
Shoulders trembling, eyes focused.
Zehan glanced down at him for a heartbeat.
Then looked forward again.
Ren spoke:
"Step."
Zehan lifted his foot.
His first step was balanced.
Not remarkable.
Just proper.
But when his foot came down…
Nothing happened.
No crack.
No sound of force.
Just a normal step.
Ren's voice was calm — but firm:
"Incorrect."
Zehan reset his posture.
Ren watched, silent but attentive.
Then:
"Again."
Zehan stepped.
Still nothing.
Silence spread, punctuated only by the distant rhythm of training disciples.
Ren's gaze was steady.
"Again."
Zehan stepped again.
And again.
His calves burned. His feet ached. His bones felt hollow.
But Ren did not intervene.
Zehan's thoughts stayed steady.
This wasn't performance.
This was foundation.
Another step.
Another.
Ren's voice cut through the cold air:
"You walk the world with your body. Strength is not the strike — it is the step."
Zehan's next step was different.
Not weaker.
Not stronger.
More intentional.
His foot descended like weight made solid.
Faint… but present.
A tiny crack spidered across the stone.
Zehan froze — just a fraction.
Ren's eyes sharpened — not to praise, but to observe.
"Better."
Zehan's heart thudded.
Not with pride.
But with understanding.
This world responded to effort.
Not belief.
Not ideology.
Effort.
Ren stepped closer, voice just above a whisper:
"This is Mortal Refinement."
No cosmic wording.
No mystical force.
Just a foundation — the body.
The step.
A seed planted before the tree could grow.
Zehan felt his breath slow.
No overexplanation.
No fluff.
Just clarity.
This is the start of strength.
Ren straightened and stepped aside.
"You will remain in Iron Step Hall," he said.
Zehan nodded once.
Zelin looked up with wide eyes.
"We… we can stay?" he asked.
Ren didn't look at him.
"If you can endure."
Zelin swallowed and nodded with fierce simplicity.
Ren turned toward the hall.
"Training begins at dawn."
He walked away, umbrella in hand — not because of rain, but like a blade sheathed at the ready.
Zehan stayed on the strip, feet aching, legs trembling, mind calm.
Broken Lantern Quarter was behind him.
Not because he had escaped.
Because he had taken the first step.
And he could already see the next one.