The sound of footsteps drew nearer, measured and heavy, shattering the night's silence already tainted by the scent of death. Each thud of iron-shod boots on the earthen road seemed to strike Zhang Bao's breastbone, vibrating through him as he still knelt on the blood-soaked floor.
He did not move. His breath caught. All his pain and shock froze into a primal, animal sharpness—an instinct for survival that pierced the thick fog of his grief.
Two figures blocked the open doorway, casting long, dancing shadows across the cluttered floor. They wore simple, earth-toned robes, but the fabric looked coarse and stiff, as if dipped in something that had dried. Their faces were hidden beneath hoods, yet the aura they emitted made the air in the room heavy, polluted.
"This one is still alive," one of them spoke, his voice raspy and flat, like stones being ground together. "A leak in the ritual. Disgusting."
"The offering's energy hasn't been fully absorbed by His Excellency," replied the other, his voice higher, almost a hiss. "He's steeped in it. Like a sponge."
Zhang Bao did not fully understand. But the words "ritual" and "offering" hooked into his flesh. This was no accident. It was deliberate. His family, his neighbors... they were all fuel for something.
"Discard him. Useless dregs," said the raspy voice.
The hissing one shook his head, tilting it in an unnatural way. "Wait. He's absorbing it. Look at those eyes. There's a spark there. Not the light of life, but something else. The Master might be interested."
A gloved hand from within the robe reached toward Zhang Bao. Not to help, but to seize.
Something inside Zhang Bao—something cold and sharp born from total loss—ignited. It was the foreign energy that had seeped into his pores, the energy from his own family's death. It screamed, revolting against this threat.
He did not think. He reacted.
With an inhuman motion, he lunged sideways, avoiding the grasp. His ordinarily average body suddenly felt light, filled with a surge of adrenaline and an alien, dark power. His hand snatched a sharp, blood-caked shard of ceramic plate from the floor.
"Don't touch me!" he yelled, his voice hoarse and broken, filled with a roughness never before present in his tone.
The hissing one chuckled, the sound like the creak of a cart wheel. "See? He fights. There's a seed in this filth."
The first one snorted, annoyed. "A waste of effort." He took a step forward, his body suddenly seeming larger, more threatening. A nauseating aura coiled around Zhang Bao, attempting to paralyze him.
But the aura only triggered a deeper reaction. The dark energy within Zhang Bao flared, rebelling against the pressure. The blood on the floor, his family's blood, seemed to sizzle and emit a faint mist that was unconsciously absorbed by Zhang Bao's skin.
He pushed himself off the floor, lunging at the first man with the ceramic shard held out. His movements were clumsy, wild, without pattern. A desperate youth, not a fighter.
The man easily deflected it, his gloved hand slapping Zhang Bao's wrist, sending the shard flying to shatter. A sharp pain shot through Zhang Bao's arm, but it only made the dark energy within him burn hotter, transforming it into searing anger.
"A pitiful Initiate-Level Apprentice Knight," the man grumbled, now sounding disgusted. "Not even fit for fertilizer."
His other hand formed a claw and gripped Zhang Bao's shoulder. The touch burned, not like fire, but like accelerated decay. Zhang Bao screamed, a searing, metaphysical pain tearing at his very soul. He felt something vital being drained from him.
Yet, simultaneously, the touch also unlocked something. Like a clogged channel finally bursting open.
The offering energy he had absorbed—energy made from the pain, fear, and death of hundreds—surged within him, seeking an outlet. It sought a vessel, a structure. Unbeknownst to Zhang Bao, it began to form the most basic, darkest foundation of the Knight's Path.
The man suddenly released his grip, startled. "He's... burning?"
His glove emitted a wisp of smoke. Zhang Bao crumpled to the floor, his shoulder feeling shattered and scorched, yet deep within his soul, something cold and hard began to crystallize. His vision shifted. The world around him seemed sharper, clearer, tinged with hues of red and grey. He could see every spatter of blood on the wall, every crack in the partially visible face of the man beneath the hood.
"Interesting," hissed the second one. "The Master will surely want to study him. Take him. He will make fine material for the next experiment."
The word "experiment" echoed in Zhang Bao's head, more terrifying than death. Death was an end. This was a threat of something far worse.
He would not be an experiment. He would give them nothing more.
With strength born of pure desperation and the raging dark energy within him, Zhang Bao pushed himself backward, away from them, and crashed through the small kitchen window. Glass shattered, lacerating his skin, but he didn't feel it. He fell into the narrow alley behind his house, and then he ran.
Shouts of anger from the two figures followed him, but they were not hurried. There was a terrible confidence in their steps, a belief that he could not run forever.
Zhang Bao ran directionlessly through the dark alleys of Brook District, past corpses beginning to stiffen. Every breath felt like a knife, and his scorched shoulder throbbed with horrific pain. Yet, beneath the pain, he could feel something else: a coldness continuing to spread from his chest, a lethal, alien power that had claimed him.
He had lost everything. Now, he had gained something in return. Something terrible. Something that would be the beginning of his long, lonely, and sacrificial path.
The first level had been formed unintentionally. He was now an Initiate-Level Apprentice Knight, propelled by blood and grief, not by discipline or understanding.
And the road ahead was long, dark, and bloody.