The Wu compound had once been called a fortress. That was before cracked stone replaced polished walls, before broken tiles let in rain, before the banner over the gate faded from proud crimson to a pale, frayed rag that snapped only when the wind felt cruel.
Now it was simply a house that refused to collapse, much like the people inside it.
The pear tree in the courtyard leaned like an old man with a crooked back. Its bark peeled in strips, branches twisted and brittle. The elders said it hadn't borne fruit in fifteen years, but no one dared cut it down. It had weathered storms, droughts, and neglect. So long as it stood, so would the Wu.
And so would Wu Tian.
He sat cross-legged beneath its shadow, breath steaming in the cold dawn. Frost crusted the courtyard stones, and the ache in his ribs from yesterday's spar still throbbed. He ignored it, pressing deeper into his breathing. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. Again. Again.
On Earth he had been Ethan Wu. Poor neighborhoods, peeling paint on apartment walls, bus rides to jobs that didn't pay enough. His mother's voice always tired but always steady. He had worked nights in a warehouse until his fingers stiffened, then mornings at a diner until his back ached. It was never enough. Bills piled faster than he could pay them.
He remembered the screech of tires. The honk that came too late. The sickening lurch as his body went weightless. Metal screamed. Then—darkness.
And then Pinebrook. Another name. Another fight.
At first, he thought it a dream. Dreams didn't starve you. Dreams didn't leave your knuckles raw or your stomach empty. This world was real, and if he wanted to survive, he had to climb.
So he breathed. Deeper. Slower. Until his lungs hurt and the edges of the world blurred.
Then he felt it.
Heat, faint but undeniable, curled low in his belly. A fragile spark, like dry tinder finally kissed by flame.
His eyes snapped open. Cold clarity slid into his mind, clean as a blade.
Cultivation: Qi Sensing, Stage 1.Talent: Low.Perks: None.Bloodline: None.
Wu Tian froze. Low.
On Earth, people had found their own words for it: average, mediocre, not enough. Teachers, bosses, neighbors. Now Heaven itself had given him the same verdict.
Low Talent. One step above trash. Enough to sense Qi, not enough to matter.
He let out a long breath, frost misting in the cold air. His lips tugged into something between a grin and a grimace.
"Fine," he muttered. "Low is enough. I'll climb anyway."
The world seemed sharper. The frost cut colder, the stones pressed harder, and the air itself hummed faintly. His body was weak, his talent worse, but something inside him had shifted.
The courtyard door creaked. Wu Feng stepped out. Broad-shouldered, hair tied back, a limp in his left leg that winter made worse. He carried a wooden spear sanded thin from years of use.
"You'll freeze yourself out here," Wu Feng said, grinning.
"Not yet," Wu Tian answered.
Wu Feng tossed him the spear. Wu Tian caught it, rolling the shaft in his hands. The wood was cracked near the grip, patched so many times it felt more scar than weapon.
"Then warm up with me," Wu Feng said.
They sparred on the frost-streaked stones. Tap, step. Tap, step. The spear bit into Wu Tian's palms. His ribs complained, but the spark in his belly pushed back. His movements were clumsy, but each exchange smoothed them—footwork a little sharper, grip a little steadier.
Boxing classes in a run-down gym back on Earth whispered in his muscles. Balance. Don't plant both feet. Don't overreach. Protect the centerline. Ethan Wu had drilled it under fluorescent lights and bad music. Wu Tian used it now under a tree that refused to die.
Wu Feng pressed forward, heavier and faster despite his limp. "Better," he said between strikes. "Don't fight the spear. Move with it."
Wu Tian slid back, deflecting with the shaft. "I'm trying."
"Try harder."
When they finally stopped, both were breathing hard, breath fogging in the cold. Wu Feng grinned and clapped his cousin's shoulder. "Not bad. Not enough, but not bad."
Aunt Mei stepped out of the kitchen, thick arms crossed, gray hair pulled into a bun. She carried two bowls of millet porridge, thinner than water, steaming faintly.
She shoved one bowl into Wu Tian's hands and one into Wu Feng's.
"Eat," she said. "Swinging sticks doesn't fill bellies."
The porridge was little more than warm water with floating grains, but Wu Tian swallowed gratefully. Warmth counted more than taste.
By midmorning, Pinebrook stirred. Merchants dragged out carts, children darted through alleys, dogs sniffed at scraps. The market smelled of dried fish, smoke, and too many hungry mouths.
Voices filled the square, though quieter than they should have been. Everyone's eyes drifted to the red-sashed Chen retainer nailing a notice to the post. His hammer rang out like a challenge.
Wu Tian walked with Wu Feng, Wu Ping, and Wu Liang. The Wu brothers. Blood and bond. Wu Ping carried his sling loose at his side, eyes sharp. Wu Liang trailed behind, thin and nervous, always chewing his lip.
Wu Tian pushed closer to the post. His jaw clenched as he read. Tribute doubled. Penalties doubled. Families listed for "relocation." The Wu name was near the top.
The retainer caught him looking and smirked. "Can you even read, boy?"
"Well enough to know theft when I see it," Wu Tian said. His voice wasn't loud, but sharp.
The man's smile vanished. "Careful."
Wu Tian didn't look away. "Careful is what's killing this town."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The retainer's hand drifted to the hilt at his side. Wu Tian's fingers itched to move, but he held still. On Earth, he had seen the same kind of men—landlords with threats, bosses with fake smiles. Power wore the same face everywhere. Sometimes the strongest punch was the one you didn't throw.
The retainer spat at the ground and turned away.
Wu Feng exhaled. Wu Ping's sling twitched in his fingers. Wu Liang trembled but did not run. That counted.
A woman with gray hair stepped forward. "My grandson was sick from your grain," she told the retainer. "You sold us rot."
He shoved her aside. Her grandchild began to cry.
Wu Tian's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to stay still. The fight would come—but not here, not yet.
That night, Wu Tian sat again under the pear tree. His ribs throbbed, his palms stung, but the spark inside him burned steadier. He pulled breath into his belly, deeper. The heat swelled and spread, flowing faintly through his arms and legs.
Cultivation: Qi Sensing, Stage 2.Talent: Low. Perks: Minor Recovery. Bloodline: None.
Wu Tian flexed his hands. The cuts from sparring no longer stung. His muscles didn't ache as much. On Earth, healing meant ice packs and painkillers. Here, it meant his body listened.
"Step by step," he muttered.
The next day, he gathered fermented fish paste, charcoal, and wax. Aunt Mei wrinkled her nose.
"What are you making?"
"Truth," Wu Tian said.
He ground the mixture into a tar-thick ink. Carried it to the inner wall. And wrote.
Names of families the Chen had bled. Numbers of tribute stolen. Grain doubled and tripled. Each stroke heavy and permanent.
Aunt Mei watched, shaking her head. "It stinks like the river died."
"Good," Wu Tian said. "Let it linger."
By dusk, he carried the bowl to the temple steps. Monks watched but did not stop him. The crowd gathered—some muttering in anger, others nodding grimly.
Wu Tian painted the same names and numbers on the polished stone. His brush scratched loud against the silence.
When he finished, he set it down. His voice carried without shouting.
"This is what's been done. If the Wu are called weak, let it be known who made us bleed."
Gasps. Murmurs. No one touched the words. Even the monks stayed still.
By sunset, the Chen would hear.
That night, Wu Tian trained until sweat soaked his back. He ran through spear forms under the pear tree until his arms shook. He breathed into the heat in his belly, coaxing it to flow smoother, stronger.
When he finally collapsed against the trunk, the clarity sharpened again.
Cultivation: Qi Sensing, Stage 3.Talent: Low.Perks: Minor Recovery, Pulse Step.Bloodline: None.
His legs tingled, his steps lighter even in stillness. His chest burned not with weakness but with momentum.
Wu Feng's words from training echoed in his mind: Not bad. Not enough, but not bad.
Wu Tian looked up through the bare branches at the stars. On Earth, nights had been neon signs, sirens, the hum of refrigerators. Here it was wind and crickets and the ache of hunger. Different sky, same weight pressing down.
On Earth, people had told him he wouldn't make it. Here, Heaven had branded him Low Talent.
He clenched his fists.
"Different world. Same fight," he whispered.
The tree creaked above him. The stars burned cold.
Wu Tian closed his eyes and breathed. Tomorrow, the Chen would come harder. And he would be ready.
Because this time, he wasn't going to crawl.
Morning came cold and clear, the kind of blue sky that felt like a taunt. The Wu compound creaked awake—hinges complaining, kettles rattling, breath fogging in thin threads. Aunt Mei banged a spoon against a pot as if to chase off bad luck. The pear tree watched like an old judge who'd seen too much and expected worse.
Wu Tian rolled his shoulders and stood in the middle of the courtyard. The ache from yesterday settled into his ribs like a coin dropped into a jar—still there, but you could ignore it if the day was loud enough. He began with breath. Slow. Patient. When his chest stretched and heat flickered low in his belly, he added movement. A step. A pivot. The spear's first form without a spear—hands cutting lines through air that had learned to be stingy.
Wu Feng limped out, hair damp, a strip of cloth knotted tight under the knee of his bad leg. He watched for a moment, then joined in with his own rhythm. Wu Ping wandered out mid-yawn, sling looped around his fingers, eyes bright with the kind of rest you only get when you're too tired to dream. Wu Liang hovered at the door until Aunt Mei shoved him gently between the shoulder blades, and then he was practicing too, jaw clenched like a fist.
"Again," Wu Tian said when they stumbled. "Smaller steps. Let the ground help."
"Ground's been nothing but trouble," Wu Ping muttered, but he corrected his footwork.
It felt good to teach. On Earth he'd taught new guys at the warehouse: how to lift without breaking their backs, how to spot each other on the forklift. Different world, same satisfaction when someone's body figured out what your words were trying to say.
They finished sweaty despite the cold. Aunt Mei handed out bowls that were more steam than porridge and hit Wu Tian lightly with her spoon when he tried to give his portion to Wu Liang.
"You're not a ghost," she said. "Eat like you plan to be here when the sun goes down."
"Yes, Aunt," he said, and ate.
After breakfast, he took two smooth clay disks from the shelf by the well and the leather thong he'd cut from an old sandal. He slotted the peg into the notch he'd carved in the well's lip, strung the disks taut, and plucked. A thin note rose, trembled in the air, and settled into a hum. He turned the peg a hair until the sound tucked itself into the gurgle of water below.
"Again with the singing well," Wu Feng said from the wall, amused.
"It helps," Wu Tian said. "Even if it only reminds me to breathe."
He sat and did exactly that. The hum threaded the air; his breath threaded his body. The spark in his belly caught more easily now, like a match finding paper instead of damp wood. He didn't force it. He'd forced plenty of things in his first life—applications, schedules, friendships stretched thin by exhaustion. Force made things crack. Patience made them work.
When he opened his eyes, the courtyard felt different. Not warmer. Not kinder. Just honest. He could work with honest.
They headed to the market together. Pinebrook's streets had learned to keep their voices down; even the dogs barked like they were sorry to be loud. The square was full but cautious. Stalls with shriveled apples and fish that had seen better water. Smoke from cheap fuel. Kids with hands in their pockets so no one saw how empty those hands were.
The temple sat on the square's far edge, its steps clean from generations of care. The black ink Wu Tian had painted last night still clung to the stone. Someone had tried to scrub the lowest lines; the paste laughed and stayed. Someone else—old hand, steady strokes—had traced the smudged parts with charcoal. The characters looked like they'd decided to be permanent.
Next to the post, a fresh notice hung with a red chop heavy at the bottom. The magistrate's clerk stood nearby, cedar oil clinging to his sleeves like a defense. He smiled the way men smile when they know nothing bad has happened to them personally. Beside him, three Chen retainers waited, hands easy near hilts. The quiet man from yesterday leaned against the post without leaning at all. He had a way of being still like a blade resting on a table—no threat until it was.
The clerk lifted his voice just enough. "The Wu clan is charged with defamation, incitement, and blasphemy for defacing temple steps. A fine will be levied and paid today. The writing will be erased. If not, relocation is immediate."
Murmurs crept through the crowd. Someone hissed. Someone else shushed them in a panic. The monk who'd watched yesterday stood in the temple's shade, hands tucked into his sleeves. His face said little; his eyes said he hadn't learned to look away.
Wu Tian stepped forward. He didn't roar or grandstand. He had no energy to waste on theater. "We'll pay any fair fine for writing truth," he said. "But not one coin for writing lies."
The clerk blinked as if an insect had flown into his eye. "The magistrate decides what is fair."
"Then let's be fair in front of Heaven," Wu Tian said, and turned—not to the clerk, not to the retainers—but to the temple. He bowed. It wasn't deep. It was clean.
He faced the crowd and raised his voice so it carried without stretching. "Here are the names. Here are the numbers. If any is wrong, I will erase it myself."
He waited.
You could learn a town by how it held silence. Pinebrook's had weight. It pressed, and then it moved. A woman with flour on her sleeves stepped forward. "Our sack was light," she said, pointing to the writing. "Heavier when the Chen weighed it, lighter when we brought it home." Her neighbor added a name. A boy spoke up, voice cracking as he told how his mother's cough worsened after eating grain that smelled wrong. A fisherman mimed his nets coming up empty because someone had skimmed his better catches first "for tribute."
The clerk's smile lost a sliver of its confidence. "Rumors," he said. "Agitation."
"Numbers," Wu Tian corrected. "You can call them by any name you like. They don't change."
The quiet man straightened. "You like numbers," he said, voice measured. "Let's count something simpler." He flicked his eyes at the talent crystal a retainer pulled from a cloth bag—a faceted stone the size of a fist, cloudy until it wasn't.
A ripple passed through the crowd; even the monk's gaze slid to the crystal. Talent tests were public sport in places like Pinebrook. Most people watched the way you watch a storm from a porch—respectfully, ready to run.
The clerk smiled again, this time like a man back in familiar shoes. "If your numbers are so good, boy, show us the one that matters."
Wu Feng's hand found Wu Tian's elbow, squeezed once. Wu Ping muttered a curse under his breath. Wu Liang swallowed hard enough to make a sound.
"This is unnecessary," the monk said softly.
"It's necessary that people know where to place their faith," the clerk replied, all honey.
Where to place your fear, Wu Tian thought. Same game.
He stepped forward. "Fine," he said, and set his palm on the crystal.
It remained cloudy a moment, as if thinking. Then a thin line of light pulsed through its heart—dull, the color of old straw. Low. The rank just above trash. Not the bottom, but it could see it from there.
The square's noise came back sharp and mean. Not laughter—Pinebrook wasn't cruel for sport—but the weary derision people carry like a habit. No future. Not worth the fight. The clerk looked bored. One retainer snorted.
The quiet man watched Wu Tian's face and saw… not much, apparently, because his head tilted a fraction. Wu Tian met his eyes and didn't smile. He'd been labeled before. On Earth it had been by forms and bosses and people who used words like "metrics" and "benchmarks." Here it was by a rock that glowed and a world that bowed to it.
"Low," Wu Tian said softly, like he was reading weather. "So I'll climb slow and won't stop. People who sprint early don't always look at the road."
The clerk made a show of sighing. "Enough of this. Pay the fine. Scrub the steps."
"What's the fine?" Wu Tian asked.
The clerk named a number that would take their stores and then the clothes on their backs.
"Interesting," Wu Tian said. "Because that's not how fines work."
He spoke quickly, cleanly, like a man counting crates at a loading dock while a supervisor looked for excuses. He walked the crowd through the numbers posted on the temple steps, how tribute had doubled, then tripled, then slid sideways under a specification change so it looked like it had returned to earlier levels when it hadn't. He pointed out that the "relocation list" tightly matched the families who still traded with the Wu or refused Chen credit. He asked where the spoiled grain had gone after it was "recalled"—if not back to the same storehouses, then whose tables? He never accused. He only asked questions sharp enough that the answers hurt on their own.
By the time he finished, the square didn't feel bored. It felt angry in a careful, frightened way—like a room full of people who'd realized they were being robbed but also realized the thief had a knife.
The clerk's jaw tightened. "Enough," he said again, but the word came out thinner.
The quiet man rolled his shoulders. "You like ink," he said to Wu Tian. "Let me teach you about clean stone."
He stepped forward with that same too-quiet stillness. Wu Tian didn't step back. He didn't need a fight here, but some fights came to you. He let his breath drop into his belly until the world narrowed to the important things—foot under foot, hand under hand, the brief permission the ground gives you before it becomes rude.
The first attack wasn't showy. A palm to the chest, meant to test, not kill. Wu Tian shifted left, a hair's worth of space opening between strike and sternum. Pulse Step. The perk's been small so far, a suggestion more than a command, but it made the difference between a bruise and a lesson.
"Better," the quiet man said. His mouth didn't smile, but his eyes did a little. The second strike came faster, fingers like iron tapping for a nerve under the collarbone.
Wu Tian remembered the forklift yard, the way old Benny had taught him to move a load with a touch instead of a shove. He turned his shoulder, let the fingers graze the wrong place, then brought his forearm down in a clean line. The quiet man redirected with no effort at all, and Wu Tian knew he'd been indulged, not outmatched.
He also knew he could stay on his feet.
The retainer nearest the clerk shifted, impatient. The monk took one step forward and then caught himself. The crowd held its breath like a single animal.
The quiet man's third move was a sweep, meant to take Wu Tian's leg. Wu Tian jumped—not high, not dramatic, just enough. He landed bad and had to catch himself with a palm on cold stone. He laughed once, breathless. "Okay," he said.
The quiet man chuckled, a sound like a knife tapping a glass. "You learn while you bleed?"
"Always have," Wu Tian said.
The quiet man stepped back and let the space grow. "Enough for today. Your ink's stubborn. I want to see if you are too."
He turned away. The clerk sputtered. "We had a—"
"We have a crowd," the quiet man said mildly. "We prefer crowds when the odds are beautiful."
The clerk swallowed whatever else he'd planned to say and pasted on a smile that fit poorly. "Tomorrow then," he said. "The fine will be collected at dawn. Make your offerings early."
He left with his men. The crowd slowly let itself breathe.
The monk passed Wu Tian at the base of the temple steps and didn't stop, but he said, very softly, "Ink fades. Words don't, if you keep speaking them."
"Do monks always talk like fortune cookies?" Wu Ping whispered after the man had gone by.
"What's a fortune cookie?" Wu Feng asked.
"Later," Wu Tian said, and the word tasted like home and hurt.
They went back to the compound. People watched them go. Some with pity. Some with fear. A handful with something like respect peeking out from behind caution.
Inside the gate, Aunt Mei had pots going and anger bottled like medicine. "They looked at me like I was a beggar when I went for salt," she said. "I've known their mothers since before they had teeth."
"They're scared," Wu Tian said. "Scared people say stupid things. Doesn't mean they're wrong about being scared."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Aunt Mei snapped.
"No," he said, and smiled without trying to. "But it means they're human. We can work with human."
They divided the day into work. There was a gate to reinforce with rope and planks that deserved retirement. There were stones to slot into the gaps at the base of the wall—small enough to pull out quick, heavy enough to throw or drop. Wu Ping and a pair of teenagers he'd terrorized into competence climbed to the roofline with baskets of fist-sized rocks. Wu Feng tore strips from an old quilt and wrapped them around spear grips so hands wouldn't slip when they were wet with sweat. Wu Liang made knots until his fingers cramped and then made more because he refused to be the reason something failed.
Wu Tian walked the perimeter and looked for where a clever man would come in. He found three places. He set a rope at ankle height where the shadow from the pear tree fell just right. He hammered a wedge under the loose paving stone by the side door and balanced a bucket of water on it so anyone running through fast would meet surprise. He stacked kindling in a way that looked like carelessness and was exactly the opposite.
"Paranoid," Wu Feng said, following and nodding approval anyway.
"Prepared," Wu Tian said. "Paranoid is what you are when you think nothing's coming."
Afternoon settled heavy. The compound stank of oil, fear, and determination. The children practiced being quiet. Aunt Mei hummed tunelessly as she chopped an onion down to something that could be called soup with enough kindness.
Near dusk, a boy from the Lin family paused at the gate with a little bundle. He didn't come in. He set it down and walked away without looking back. Inside were three eggs, older than fresh but better than nothing, and a string of dried mushrooms. No note this time. The kindness made something in Wu Tian's chest ache worse than the cold.
"Lin doing charity now?" Aunt Mei grunted when he handed her the bundle.
"They remember we're people," Wu Tian said.
"They'll remember better when the Chen decide to teach them a lesson for it," Aunt Mei said, and then caught herself. "Which doesn't mean I'm not grateful," she added, softer. "Grateful and out of salt."
Night came like a door closing. Wu Tian stood under the pear tree with his spear, hands wrapped in cloth, breath steady. He ran forms until his legs shook and then ran them slower, like he was teaching his muscles a lullaby.
The spark of heat in his belly burned a little bigger. It flowed down his arms, up his spine, across his chest. He rode it the way you ride a bike for the first time—wobbly, scared to fall, amazed the wheels moved at all.
Cultivation: Qi Sensing, Stage 3.Talent: Low.Perks: Minor Recovery, Pulse Step.Bloodline: None.
He set the spear aside and walked the wall again. The street beyond dozed, then pretended to. He heard footfalls that belonged to cats and footfalls that pretended to belong to cats. He waited.
The first intruder chose the side door and met the bucket. It crashed, a stupid sound that made the night cough. The man swore and stumbled; Wu Ping's sling whispered, and a stone cracked against the man's temple. He crumpled. Two more tried the same path and immediately decided against it.
The second intruder got clever. He went over the far wall where the mortar had given up first. Wu Liang spotted him only because he'd been staring at that exact section since sunset like he was daring it to betray them. He hissed, not loud. Wu Tian moved.
Pulse Step carried him the way good timing carries a conversation. He didn't cover distance so much as erase it. He arrived under the far wall as the intruder dropped inside, knife low and forward. Wu Tian didn't have time for a form. He put his forearm against the man's wrist and turned his hips. The knife scraped stone instead of finding ribs. The man's breath left him in a surprised sound. Wu Tian drove his shoulder into the man's chest and both of them went down hard. Pain shot up his arm; he rode it.
The third intruder didn't come alone. Two shadows slid through the gate when someone outside loosened a hinge that had been pretending to be solid. They moved like men who'd practiced together—one high, one low. Wu Feng met the high one with a spear that hummed like a promise; Aunt Mei met the low one with a pan that had seen years of meals and was not impressed by bones. The pan struck; the man cursed; Wu Ping's sling sang again; the night collected a second body.
The quiet man didn't come at all. Wu Tian knew somehow that he'd chosen not to. That meant something. He didn't know what yet.
The scramble lasted minutes and felt like an hour. Fear is bad at time. When it was done, three men lay groaning, one lay still, and the street outside had learned that this door was surprises, not spoils.
Wu Tian leaned against the wall and tasted copper in his mouth. He wiped his lip and stared at the smear on his fingers. His hand trembled once, then stopped. He breathed until the world steadied around the edges.
Aunt Mei planted her hands on her hips and glared like she could scold the night into apologizing. "People with clean hands," she said, "always make the messes other people have to mop."
Wu Tian let himself smile. "We mopped," he said.
He checked the wounded, tied wrists, propped men up so they wouldn't choke. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't merciful either. There was a middle that felt like sanity.
When the courtyard settled, he went back under the pear tree. His legs were jelly. His arms shook quiet. He set the spear across his knees and closed his eyes.
Breath in. Breath out. Find the spark. Feed it. The warmth rose quicker now, spread wider, circled smoother. He didn't think of forms or steps. He thought of a rope pulled hand over hand, of a box lifted carefully so it didn't break your back, of a budget revised one line at a time until it almost made sense.
The clarity slid into place with a tiny shiver, like a door latch settling.
Cultivation: Qi Sensing, Stage 4.Talent: Low.Perks: Minor Recovery, Pulse Step, Iron Grip.Bloodline: None.
His hands closed into fists without meaning to. The new strength wasn't flashy. It wasn't a burst of fire or a flash of light. It was solidity. A grip that wouldn't slip when sweat made everything treacherous. A steadiness in his forearms like rebar laid into concrete.
He opened his eyes. The courtyard had thinned out. Wu Ping snored on the roofline near his basket of stones. Wu Feng sat on the steps, head back, mouth open in a sleep he'd argue he wasn't having. Wu Liang leaned against the wall with a length of rope still looped in his hands, eyes closed only because his body had staged a quiet mutiny. Aunt Mei snored in the chair she'd sworn she would not fall asleep in while "supervising."
Wu Tian stood slowly, walked to the inner wall, and touched the hard black rows of characters he'd painted. The ink had set like it had always meant to be stone. He felt, ridiculous as it was, that the wall had taken a side.
He went to the gate and looked out at the street. The moon had climbed higher, its light washing the cracks in the world in an honesty that made them harder to ignore. Across the square, the temple's steps held their numbers like teeth.
He thought of Earth then. Of the manager who'd winked while stealing tips from the jar. Of the landlord who'd "forgotten" to fix the heat until spring. Of nights he'd spent figuring where to trim and what bill to skip and how many noodles you could stretch into a week if you lied to yourself about hunger.
Same fight. Different tools.
He put his palm on the cold wood of the gate. "We'll be here in the morning," he told it. "Make sure you are too."
The gate didn't answer. Gates are stubborn, not conversational. He went back to the pear tree, sank down, and let his bones complain.
The tree creaked, old wood talking to cold air. He looked up through the twisted branches. Stars stared back. He made himself a promise he'd already made a hundred different ways in two different lives.
"You chose the wrong people to push," he said softly—to the Chen, to the magistrate, to the part of the world that had learned to like the taste of its own power. "We're not pretty when we're cornered."
He breathed until the promise felt like part of him, until the ache in his forearms turned into a quiet satisfaction, until the spark in his belly settled into a steady coal.
Sleep took him like a job he had to show up for—uncomplicated, overdue.
Dawn would bring the clerk, and fines, and whatever passed for justice when the rich wrote the rules. He would bring ink. And numbers. And the kind of stubborn that makes the world move a little just to get away from it.
If they brought steel, he would bring bone.
If they brought paper, he would bring truth.
He had Low Talent.
He had breath and a family and hands that didn't slip anymore.
For now, that was enough.