The rooftop stank of rot.
Rowan stood still, breath ragged, surrounded by the black, oily runoff leaking from his body. It hissed as it touched the frost-covered tiles, the steam rising in greasy curls.
His palms were slick. His legs trembled.
His breath came too easy. Too deep.
He shouldn't have been able to stand. But now—his feet felt rooted to the tile. His spine was straight. His muscles felt tight and awake.
He could hear carts creaking through the southern alley. One of them had a splintered wheel. He could smell ginger root from the tea shop across the square. His own heartbeat was loud, steady, and deep.
But none of that mattered right now.
The stench was awful. The stains were everywhere.
Someone would notice.
He crouched and wiped the black sludge with the edge of the blanket Yuna had left. It smeared, thick and wet, soaking straight through the fabric. His skin kept pushing it out—oily and sour, like something that had been trapped inside for years.
Rowan peeled off his undershirt and tossed it aside. It hit the tile with a squelch. More of the filth slid down his back and arms.
His entire body was purging.
He had to move—fast.
The house was quiet. Still.
No one had seen anything.
He moved quickly to the back of the home—an old storage closet with a chipped basin and a half-full water barrel. He grabbed the bucket and poured three full scoops over his head.
The cold hit him like a slap.
He didn't stop.
He scrubbed with a stiff-bristled laundry brush, dragging it across his arms, chest, neck. The water at his feet turned black. He stripped everything off, tied it into a sack, and shoved it under the loose floorboard behind the basin.
He checked the panel.
STATUS PANEL
Name: Rowan Black
Cultivation Technique: [Initializing…]
Realm: Prenatal (Peak Stage)
Lifespan: 100 / 200 years
Still no technique.
He opened the window and washed his face again. Twice. His reflection in the wash basin caught his eye.
He paused.
His face had changed.
The spots under his eyes were gone. His skin looked firm. His hair was thicker. He no longer looked 99. He looked like a man in his fifties—weathered but strong. As if the last years had been wiped off in a single night.
He was drying his neck with a towel when he heard footsteps.
Quick. Light.
Not Yuna.
Neris.
"Rowan?" she called. "Why's the floor wet?"
He pulled the towel tighter and opened the door.
Neris stood outside, eyes wide. Her mouth opened slightly.
She stared at his face.
Then his bare chest.
Then the floor.
"You…"
Rowan gave a small smile.
"I broke through," he said simply.
Neris just stood there, blinking.
Her lips moved but no sound came out. Her gaze kept flicking over his face like she didn't believe it.
"You—you broke through?"
He nodded once. "Last night."
"You were coughing blood three days ago."
"I know."
"You couldn't even walk to the well."
He said nothing.
Her eyes welled suddenly, and she let out a short laugh.
Then, without another word, she turned and ran down the hallway.
"Yuna!" she shouted. "Come see! He broke through! Rowan broke through!"
Rowan stayed where he was, towel in hand, water dripping from his hair.
He didn't try to stop her.
He just stood there, watching the light shift in the open window, and waited for the system to finish what it had started.