The night in the northern wing was heavy with dampness. A faint drip echoed from the stone ceiling, each drop splattering into some unseen puddle like the ticking of a clock that refused to move forward. Ruan sat hunched, her wrists and ankles bound by iron chains bolted into the wall. They had rubbed her skin raw, but she never complained aloud.
Around her, the air was crowded with despair. The other prisoners coughed, muttered, or whispered prayers to gods who no longer listened. Some were true criminals—faces hardened with scars and sins—but most were like shadows of farmers, merchants, and wanderers caught in webs of accusations. The smell of sweat, blood, and mildew made the entire wing feel more like a graveyard than a prison.
The guards had noticed her small size early. To them, she was less a prisoner and more a toy.
"Little twig," one of them sneered earlier, kicking her chain as if to see if she rattled.
"Too frail for a warrior. Your clan must've sent you as an offering."
Ruan always answered back, biting words like tiny knives. "Better a twig than a dog wagging its tail at his master. How many boots have you licked today?"
They laughed, insulted, but amused. Sometimes that earned her a slap. Other times, they left her be. Still, she kept her mouth sharp. It was all she had.
In the darkness, she thought of Jin. He's probably yawning, making a joke of the whole thing. The thought made her snort, then laugh quietly. She didn't want to admit it, but the man's ridiculousness was infectious. He unsettled her, and yet, when she thought of him, she felt less alone.
But that night, the laughter ended.
The iron door screeched open. Torches flared. Heavy boots stepped toward her. Two guards unchained her wrists and dragged her through winding halls into a chamber deeper underground.
The moment the door opened, her breath hitched.
A torture room.
Hooks on the walls. Iron rods in braziers glowing red. The stink of scorched flesh clung to the stone.
They tied her to a chair—not to harm her, but to make her watch. Before her, another girl was bound to a wooden post. She was older, maybe fifteen or sixteen, her eyes swollen from crying, her lips trembling with silent pleas.
The torturer, a broad man with a scar across his jaw, leaned down so Ruan could see his face. His tone was almost polite.
"This one stole from the clan's stores. A crime punishable by branding. Consider this lesson, little one."
He lifted tongs. At their end glowed a coal, red as the sun.
The girl screamed when it touched her skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the room. Ruan thrashed against her ropes, tears welling up in her eyes. "Stop! She's just a child! Stop it!"
The back of a guard's hand silenced her, splitting her lip. "Watch," he growled. "That's all you're good for."
So she watched. For hours. One after another—petty thieves, runaways, rebels—paraded before her eyes, tortured until dawn stained the narrow window slits.
By the time they dragged her back to her cell, Ruan's body trembled with exhaustion. They demanded she speak. She told them what she could: that Jin had no clan name, no history. She repeated herself until her voice broke.
"You expect us to believe you travel with a rootless man?" a guard scoffed. "Lies, all of it."
They left her chained once more, bruised and hollow.
Her head drooped. Was this all her training was worth? She remembered every morning, every strike of her Tide Root martial practice, the endless repetitions, the sweat-soaked floors. She thought it had prepared her for anything. But here—her strength was nothing. Her style, useless.
Was Tide Root style truly inferior? Was I?
Meanwhile, in the inner court, far above the stench of chains and misery, the air smelled of incense and polished wood.
The clan leader , cold and calculated as such, sat unmoving, robes black as a moonless night. His eyes were cold lanterns, reflecting no light, no mercy. Lord Bi'an, leaning forward slightly, broke the silence.
"Tell me… this boy. Jin. Where does he come from? What clan? What lineage?"
The clan leader's gaze shifted to him, like a predator acknowledging a smaller beast.
"I know nothing of him," Lord Bi'an admitted honestly. "He is wild—no last name, no clan to speak of. But he carries something… peculiar. Even I cannot measure it."
The leader's fingers tapped once against the armrest. "Then he is dangerous."
Bi'an frowned. "You placed them in that prison. I ask again: what trial do you intend? Surely, there must be another way."
The clan leader's lips barely moved. "There is none."
Silence pressed between them.
Bi'an persisted, voice low but firm. "The girl is young. The boy… unpredictable. Must their path be slaughter?"
"Either they kill one another," the clan leader said, his voice flat as stone, "or I will kill them both myself."
There was no anger in the words. No malice. Only certainty, as if he were discussing weather.
Bi'an's expression darkened. "And if they refuse?"
"Then they will die."
The incense smoke curled upward. The matter was settled.
Back in the cell, Ruan hugged her knees to her chest. She whispered into the dark, so soft no one else could hear:
"Jin… you better not die. Because if you do… I'll kill you myself."
But her voice cracked, and her tears fell silently into the stone beneath her.
For her, Jin was the closest she had gotten to a brother, she didn't want to call him that, he was rude, playful and childish....but he cared.
For Jin, he didn't want someone to die due to him or was it because he didn't want to take responsibility for someone else? When he himself couldn't take responsibility for himself.
The night grows cold, the wind howls, the tides of the world are beginning to move, the connection between 4 paths will soon be told, 4 people, one title, one person.