The following days blurred into a haze of pain, hunger, and constant vigilance. Zhang Bao became a ghost in his own graveyard, hiding among the silent ruins of Brook District. The pain in his shoulder subsided, shifting from a raging burn to a persistent cold, a strange numb sensation with a core of hardness like bone beneath the skin.
Hunger finally forced him out of hiding. He scavenged the silent homes, carefully avoiding the place where his family lay. He found a forgotten piece of hard bread, a few strips of dried meat still stored in a jar. Every bite felt like a betrayal, but the instinct to survive overrode everything.
His new power, the turbid energy he felt swirling within him, gave him a grim advantage. His sharpened hearing warned him of the City Patrol's approach hours beforehand, giving him time to hide on a roof or in a sewer. His improved night vision allowed him to move within the shadows, avoiding the circles of their oil lamps.
But it was a double-edged sword. Every time he called upon that energy, even a little, to strengthen a jump or lighten his step, the shadows returned. He didn't see clear visions, but felt echoes—muffled screams, sudden dread, and then… emptiness. They were the remnants of the dead, clinging to his power like soot. It nauseated him, yet also filled him with a deepening bitterness.
One night, as a drizzle swept the streets, washing away some of the scent of death, Zhang Bao found something. Tucked behind a collapsed water cistern lay an old man. He was not from Brook; his clothes were too fine, his robe of a smoother fabric, though now torn and stained. More importantly, he was still breathing—a ragged, irregular gasp.
Zhang Bao froze, his instincts screaming at him to flee. But something held him there. The old man's face was pale and sweaty despite the cool air. On his neck was a strange wound. The skin around it was blackish, with a marbled pattern similar to the mark on Zhang Bao's shoulder, but far worse. As if the decay had been frozen in place.
The old man's eyes fluttered open, rolling in fear. "Don't… don't come closer!" he sobbed, his voice hoarse. "Take it back… it is not for the uninitiated… the Master… he is too greedy…"
Zhang Bao crouched, keeping his distance. "Who are you?" His voice was rough from disuse.
The old man's eyes focused on Zhang Bao for a second. He saw his dirty clothes, gaunt face, and the absence of a uniform or insignia. Not an immediate threat. His panic subsided slightly, replaced by agony.
"Xun… of the Order… the Vermilion Blade Order," he groaned, pressing on his wound. "He cursed me… siphoned it… almost all of it… for himself…" Tears mixed with sweat on his cheeks. "The ritual… flawed. The energy… wild. He couldn't control it."
Pieces of information clicked into place in Zhang Bao's mind. Order. Master. Ritual. This was one of them. But he was wounded. Betrayed.
"Brook District," Zhang Bao said, his voice flat, emotionless. "That was you?"
The old Xun closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain. "Orders… from above. An offering… to open the path… for His Excellency to descend… but the Master… he took more than his share." He coughed, and a speck of something black and oily appeared on his lip. "He… is avaricious. Greedy. He will… destroy us all… for his own power."
The frozen rage in Zhang Bao's chest vibrated. Here, wounded and dying, was one of the architects of his ruin. He wanted to strangle him. To tear the wound open. But information was the only currency he had now.
"This power," Zhang Bao hissed, pointing to his own wounded shoulder. "What is it?"
Xun opened his eyes, looking more carefully. He saw the marbled pattern on Zhang Bao's skin, his eyes widening. "You… you survived? You… absorbed the dregs?" He let out a choked laugh, a bitter, broken sound. "A terrible irony… a rat survives the flood… only to drown in its puddles."
"WHAT IS IT?" Zhang Bao snapped, his voice rising with pent-up frustration and hatred.
"Ash-forged!" the old man moaned, frightened by Zhang Bao's intensity. "Unrefined power… from unnatural death! Filthy! Unstable! It will rot your soul… consume you from within… unless…" He sobbed, his energy spent.
"Unless?" Zhang Bao urged, leaning closer.
"Unless… you find a way… to condense it. To shape it. But the path… is lost. Our Order… only knows how to take… not to build." He coughed again, harder, his body shuddering. "The Master… he tries… but he only knows… how to corrupt…"
Xun spoke more, his words growing slurred, mixed with incoherent prayers and cries of fear. He spoke of "Tiers," of "Condensation," of the dangers of a "Core Soul" formed from impure energy. He named the levels—Apprentice Knight, Rookie Knight—with derision, calling them "deviations from the true path," a path their Order had abandoned for quicker, more vicious methods.
Zhang Bao listened, carving every word into his mind. This was not a teaching, but a dying confession. A glimpse into the corrupt, twisted system of power that had destroyed his life.
Suddenly, Xun stiffened. His eyes flew open, staring at something in the distance. "He… comes… he can smell it… smell my dying energy…" He looked at Zhang Bao, and for a moment, there was a flicker of pity in his eyes. "Run… little rat… run and hide your ash… before he… snuffs it out…"
His breath hitched. His body went rigid, then slack. The light in his eyes vanished.
Zhang Bao didn't need to be told twice. A sense of danger, ten times stronger than anything he'd felt from the city patrol, stabbed through his bones. It was a piercing, vile presence, like maggots crawling over his mind.
He bolted, leaving Xun's corpse behind, and slithered back into the maze of alleys. He found a new hiding place—a forgotten cellar beneath a ruined blacksmith's shop.
Sitting in the darkness, cold and wet, he pondered Xun's last words.
Ash-forged. Unrefined power.
He looked at his hand. He concentrated, calling the energy. The thick, grey mist appeared again, coiling around his finger. Now he knew what it was. He knew where it came from.
Disgust welled up inside him. But beneath the disgust, there was understanding. A seed of knowledge.
The Master knew how to "condense" it. But his way was through corruption. Through taking.
Zhang Bao clenched his fist, snuffing out the mist.
He would not run forever. He would not hide forever.
He had to learn. He had to find his own way. He had to forge this ash into something he could use. Something that could bring him closer to his murderers.
The path ahead was still long and dark. But now, for the first time, there was a sliver of terrible purpose in that darkness. He would learn the rules of their game.
Then, he would use them to break them.