The twilight sky above the city of Hearthstone was painted in hues of orange and grey, the colour of smoke from the extinguished smelting workshops blending with the clouds. Zhang Bao let out a long sigh, weariness filling every inch of his body. His simple wooden cart creaked as it passed through the main city gate, its wheels leaving faint impressions on the compacted earthen road. It had been a long day. The task of delivering a shipment of scrap iron to an outlying settlement had kept him away for nearly two days.
The familiar scent of Hearthstone—a mixture of smoke, road dust, and the aroma of simple food from street stalls—greeted him. Normally, this signified coming home. But today, something felt different. The difference was subtle, almost imperceptible.
The streets leading to his residential district, Brook District, were devoid of their usual bustle. Typically at this hour, the streets would be filled with workers returning from their shifts, the calls of vegetable vendors selling their remaining stock, and the laughter of children running about. This evening, there was only a gently blowing wind, carrying dry leaves and a scrap of discarded paper across the empty streets. Several of the oil lamps that usually illuminated the dark corners were either extinguished or shattered, leaving behind elongated and distorted shadows.
Zhang Bao dismissed the uneasy feeling in his heart. "Perhaps there is a celebration or a community meeting I missed," he muttered to himself, trying to convince himself that his paranoia was merely a product of his fatigue. He left his cart in front of the warehouse of the small merchant guild he worked for, locking it with a rusty iron padlock.
His footsteps quickened as he navigated the increasingly dark, narrow alleys. His rented home was not far from here. He envisioned his younger sister's bright face, welcoming him with silly stories about the neighbour's cat. He imagined his mother might have set aside a little warm meat broth for him, and his father would be sitting in his wooden chair, asking about his journey.
Yet, the deeper he ventured into Brook District, the more profound the silence became. The windows of the houses were tightly shut, with no candlelight leaking through the cracks. Even the dogs that usually barked were now silent.
Then, his nose caught something.
The smell of scrap iron. But not from a workshop. It was sharper, more... fresh. A familiar metallic scent, yet mixed with something sweet and revolting, like meat left too long under the blazing sun.
His heart pounded violently. His unease transformed into a chilling dread that crept up his spine. He began to run, his boots slapping against the hard ground, the sound echoing in the deserted alley.
He turned into the small lane where his house stood.
And his world stopped.
His rented home... was not destroyed. Its door was tightly closed, like all the others. But in front of the door, something dark and shapeless lay sprawled. A neighbour, Elder Liu, lay there. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the darkening sky, devoid of any light. And around him, on the ground, were patterns of dark, sticky splatter, drying into a dull, rusty colour.
Zhang Bao stood stunned, his breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted around. In front of the house next door, near the well, was another. A young woman, perhaps Mrs. Lan the flower seller, lay in an unnatural position, like a broken doll.
Then, he saw it. The door to his own house was not locked. It was slightly ajar, just enough to see the darkness within.
With a trembling hand, Zhang Bao pushed it open slowly.
The smell assaulted him, so strong it made his eyes water. The smell of iron and rotting meat.
The scene inside the small rented home was a hell conceived by a devil.
Their simple wooden table was split in two. Eating utensils were scattered, some shattered, others... smeared with something dark red. On the floor lay a figure he knew better than himself. His father. The body of the man, usually strong and sturdy, now lay limp, his face frozen in an eternal expression of terror and disbelief.
From the small room in the back came the buzzing of flies.
Zhang Bao walked, his legs feeling as if they were made of lead. Each step was torture. He entered the room.
His mother lay on the bed, the simple blanket dragged from her body. Her hand was stretched out, as if reaching for something—or someone. His eight-year-old sister, Xiao Mei, lay on the floor beside the bed, her ragged cloth doll still clutched tightly to her chest. Her small eyes, which usually sparkled, were now empty, staring at the gloomy ceiling.
There were no tears. No screams. Zhang Bao's world narrowed to this small, blood-scented room. All sound vanished, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. His mind was blank, numb. He fell to his knees between their bodies, his trembling hand touching his sister's cold arm.
This was not a robbery. This was not the rage of a demon beast. This was... something else. Something evil. Something deliberate.
From outside, the sound of footsteps echoed in the silent alley. The sound was heavy, measured, and unhurried. Not the steps of frightened residents.
Zhang Bao did not move. He remained kneeling, surrounded by his slain family. A sharp, alien coldness began to creep from the depths of his shattered heart, replacing the numbness. This was no longer grief.
This was the beginning of something dark. The beginning of a Dark Knight's Path. The beginning of his ruin.