The night of his first underground victory had left a mark not only on his fists but on the whispers that crept through the city streets. Jie had not spoken his name. He had not needed to. What people remembered was the look in his eyes.
Gray, pale as steel, and merciless.
They had shone in the torchlight like something inhuman, reflecting not the innocence of a child but the hunger of a beast. Men who had laughed when he stepped into the pit found themselves haunted by those eyes long after the blood was washed away. By morning, the whispers had grown: a demon boy in the ring, a gray-eyed monster-child who fights like thunder.
At eight years old, Jie walked through the morning market like a shadow stitched into the crowd. People moved aside when he passed. Some avoided his gaze, others crossed themselves as though warding off evil. He had never felt more alive.
He felt their fear pressing against his skin like heat. And it thrilled him.
Yet, he was still a child, and children grow restless. After stealing a steamed bun from a distracted vendor, Jie wandered beyond the markets, following the back alleys until the city thinned into scattered farmsteads. There, he found boys his age playing, shouting, hurling sticks like spears.
One boy spotted him and pointed. "It's him. The demon eyes."
The game stopped. The boys turned as a pack, their curiosity mingling with fear. Jie stared back without a word. He was not trying to be cruel, but silence had become his habit; words felt unnecessary when eyes could cut deeper.
"You really killed a man?" one boy asked, stepping forward despite trembling hands.
Jie blinked. "No."
The boys exchanged nervous glances.
"But you fought in the pit."
"I fought," Jie said simply. His voice was flat, steady, like stone being dropped into a well.
That answer should have calmed them, but it did the opposite. Their fear grew. Children could smell the truth better than adults. Even without blood on his fists, they knew what he was.
The boldest boy, taller than the rest and with the swagger of someone used to being followed, lifted his chin. "Show us, then. Show us how you fight."
The others nodded nervously. This was not admiration. It was a test—one born of fear, not respect.
Jie stepped into their circle.
The tall boy swung first, clumsy but fast. Jie didn't dodge. He caught the arm, twisted, and pressed his shoulder against the taller boy's chest. With a single push, the boy flew back, landing hard in the dirt, wind rushing from his lungs in a gasp.
Silence hung heavy.
Jie's gray eyes swept over them all. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't angry. He was only watching, like a predator observing prey that wasn't worth the chase.
One by one, the boys backed away, pulling their fallen leader to his feet. Their faces were pale. None met Jie's gaze. Without another word, they scattered, leaving Jie alone.
For the first time, the boy felt something strange. Not victory, not hunger—loneliness.
The whispers reached beyond the city. Word of the "gray-eyed child" spread among merchants, who carried tales along their trade routes. By the time Jie turned nine, strangers would travel into town just to catch a glimpse of him. Some came with offers: food, coin, even promises of apprenticeship in martial arts schools. Jie refused them all. His hunger wasn't for wealth or technique. It was for the raw, unshaped violence that had carved itself into his blood.
But whispers had a cost.
One evening, as the sun bled red across the rooftops, Jie returned to his small, crumbling home—a shack on the edge of the village. His guardian, an old woman who barely tolerated him, sat outside with a stranger. The man wore fine robes, his hair tied neatly, his stance radiating control. His eyes measured Jie the way a butcher measures a pig before slaughter.
"This is the child?" the man asked.
The old woman nodded quickly, avoiding Jie's gaze. "Yes. The one they speak of. Gray eyes. Unnatural strength."
The man stepped forward. "Boy. You've made quite a noise for yourself. The underground ring is not a place for children, yet you bled a man there. What do you seek?"
Jie tilted his head. "To fight."
"Why?"
Jie thought for a moment. No one had ever asked him that. Finally, he answered, "Because I must."
The man studied him, then smiled faintly. "You're not wrong. Violence is a truth men bury in shame. You, however, carry it openly. But know this: men like you either become kings… or monsters that must be slain."
The words rolled over Jie like rain on stone. He didn't understand all of it, but he understood enough. Kings. Monsters. Strength was all that mattered.
The man left without another word. The old woman looked at Jie with something between pity and fear. That night, she packed her belongings and fled the village. She left no food, no farewell. Jie woke alone in a home already empty.
It didn't break him. It freed him.
He spent the next weeks sleeping wherever he pleased—temple steps, rooftops, even in the forest. He stole what he needed. When thugs cornered him for the crime, he fought them, and each time the hunger burned brighter. He began to notice things. The way bones shifted under pressure. The way eyes widened just before a strike. The way men's hearts beat faster when his gray gaze locked onto theirs.
He wasn't just strong. He was learning.
One fight in particular etched itself into the memory of every witness. A drunken soldier, clad in half-rusted armor, caught Jie stealing rice. The soldier swung his scabbard, furious, and the crowd expected to see the boy beaten bloody. Instead, Jie caught the blow with his bare forearm, twisted the weapon free, and shattered the man's nose with the hilt.
The soldier collapsed, groaning, blood pooling on the cobblestones. The crowd fell silent. Jie stood over him, his gray eyes burning in the torchlight.
From that night on, no one in the district dared meet his gaze.
Children ran when they saw him. Adults muttered prayers. Merchants turned their backs. He was not merely feared. He was untouchable.
And yet, deep inside, Jie wondered why the loneliness gnawed harder than hunger. Why the fear in their eyes made him feel hollow even as his strength grew.
The answer came one night in the form of another stranger. This one was not a merchant, nor a soldier. He was a wanderer, clothed in plain robes, carrying a staff. His eyes were calm, ancient, as if they had already seen all the violence the world could offer. He found Jie crouched on a temple roof, watching the stars.
"You stare at the sky," the man said softly. "But your eyes are not searching for light. They search for prey."
Jie narrowed his gaze. "Who are you?"
"Someone who has seen too many beasts born into this world," the man replied. He sat beside the boy as though they were old friends. "Your eyes… they will bring you strength. But they will also bring you sorrow. People will fear them. They already do. You must learn to wield that fear, or it will devour you."
Jie said nothing.
The man smiled faintly. "Good. Silence can be a weapon too. Remember that."
When Jie turned to look again, the wanderer was gone, as if he had never been there.
The words lingered. That night, for the first time, Jie dreamed not of fists and blood, but of eyes—gray like his own, staring back at him from the darkness.
By morning, the whispers had grown louder. He was no longer just a boy who fought. He was the gray-eyed demon, the monster-child who unsettled grown men with a glance.
Jie walked through the market, and people parted without a word.
Not because he had earned respect.
But because the sight of his eyes made their blood run cold.
And deep within, Jie began to understand: strength would not only shape his fists. It would shape the world around him, bending it to his presence whether he wished it or not.