"You carry a spark of that light, my son," the voice whispered, soft as a feather brushing against his mind. "A spark even the heavens might one day fear."
Lu Mao's eyes snapped open. The memory—or was it a dream?—clung to him, sticky and fragile. In the corners of his vision, he thought he saw her: a fair figure, glimmering, almost translucent, hair flowing like liquid silver. She smiled. Lips moved, yet no sound reached him. He blinked, and she was gone. Always gone. Yet the warmth in his chest remained, pulsing faintly, alive, insistent.
He rolled onto his back on the half-collapsed rooftop, the rough tiles pressing into his shoulders and spine. Dawn streaked the jagged cityscape with gold and rust. Smoke spiraled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the smell of fried buns, wet stone, and dust. From the streets below came a rising chorus of chaos: carts rattling, merchants shouting prices, children squealing, and stray animals chasing and fleeing in equal measure.
The city breathed. And Lu Mao breathed with it.
His fingers twitched instinctively. Each vibration of the tiles beneath him, each draft of wind, each distant footstep resonated through his body. The lessons of his father, Jin Wu, ran in his blood and bones: every motion was a signal, every shadow a potential ally or enemy. Phantom Doubles, fleeting echoes of himself, could leap into the street for a heartbeat, sowing confusion or striking fear. Doppelgängers could shift his form for a moment, fooling the eyes of the unwary, escaping danger in plain sight.
All of it—the mischief, the subtle chaos, the illusions—was art. And he was the painter.
Below, the marketplace stirred to life. A fruit vendor muttered curses as her basket wobbled. A portly rice merchant huffed and puffed as he tried to balance scales. Guards strutted through the streets like arrogant roosters, chest puffed, eyes scanning for trouble yet blind to the subtle dance unfolding around them.
Lu Mao rolled to the edge of the roof, toes finding cracks in the worn tiles, breathing shallowly. His stomach growled faintly, but it was the thrill, not hunger, that made his pulse quicken.
"Perfect," he whispered.
He dropped lightly, landing silently amid crates stacked near a fountain. Fingers flexed, eyes scanning. A slight nod. He flicked his hand, and the first act of chaos began.
A crate teetered, then toppled, scattering apples. Flour burst from a sack like smoke from a fire. The pompous guard lunged, arms flailing, only to slip and crash into a puddle. Children laughed, some squealed, and Lu Mao slipped behind a barrel, grin sharp as a knife.
"Oops," he muttered.
By midmorning, he had collected his spoils: two rice cakes, a handful of copper coins, and a small, curious trinket that caught the sun like it held secrets. Enough to survive. Enough to play. Enough to dream.
He leapt to the next roof, wind tugging at his hair and sleeves. The rooftops stretched endlessly, rickety, broken, cracked. Every tile, every beam, every ledge spoke to him. Every shadow pulsed with potential.
A vendor's voice broke his reverie: "Hey! That's my apple, you little rat!"
Lu Mao twirled mid-air, the apple spinning on his palm. "You mean this one?" he said, flicking it back, only to snatch it again before it landed. "Consider it… a loan with generous interest."
The man froze, jaw slack. Lu Mao grinned, vanished, and the city's chaos continued. Flour drifted, chickens scattered, coins rolled.
The warmth in his chest pulsed faintly, responding to the thrill. The God Devouring Vein, ancient and forbidden, whispered in his veins. Its presence was subtle, almost teasing, but undeniable. A thread of hunger, of power waiting, waking.
He pressed a hand to his chest. "What… are you?" he muttered. But the pulse answered only in rhythm: steady, alien, familiar.
A guard's shout split the air. "Stop! Thief!"
Lu Mao's grin widened. He flicked his fingers. The world shimmered. In his place, a burly merchant adjusted his hat, confusion crossing his face. The guard charged blindly. Lu Mao melted into shadows, laughter barely audible.
Doppelgänger. Level One.
The whisper from inside came again, ancient, cold, insistent.
He released a Phantom Double into the crowd. A fleeting echo of himself danced among crates, scattering coins and flour, before disappearing entirely. Guards cursed, children cheered, merchants yelled. Lu Mao leapt to another roof, agile and silent.
The city was his canvas. Every motion, every sound, every vibration—notes in a symphony only he could conduct.
He paused atop a narrow beam, sunlight warming his face. The pulse in his chest flared slightly, teasing, testing boundaries. Hunger. Curiosity. Power. And beneath it, the faint memory of a voice, soft and ephemeral: "A spark even the heavens might one day fear."
A shadow detached itself at his side. The black cat had returned, emerald eyes glinting in the light, tail flicking lazily. It regarded him silently, patient and deliberate, a companion in a world that never paused.
Lu Mao crouched, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "You know," he said softly, voice almost drowned by the city's roar, "sometimes I think… there's something waiting for me. Something big." He shook his head. "But I don't know what. Can't see it. Can't touch it. Only… feel it."
The cat blinked slowly, unimpressed, yet somehow comforting.
"I've seen too much already," he whispered, tracing a finger along a crack in the tiles. "I've seen men fight and die for nothing, thieves die for pride, kids starve while the fat merchants laugh… and still, it feels like there's… more. Something out there… just for me. Waiting."
He paused, letting the words fall into the morning air. "Do you ever feel it, little one? You stare at people all day, silent. Watching. I think you know. I think you can feel it too."
The cat twitched, tail flicking, eyes unreadable. It leapt to a nearby beam, landing silently. Lu Mao followed, crouching beside it. "Yeah. You don't talk," he muttered, "but I swear, sometimes I think you understand more than anyone. More than Jin Wu. More than even me."
A faint gust of wind stirred their hair and fur. Lu Mao's gaze drifted across the city, rooftops folding into alleys, alleys curling into the heart of AzureCity. "Maybe one day I'll find it. That thing waiting for me… and then I'll know who I really am. Or… who I'm meant to be."
The cat blinked again. No answer. But that was enough. Lu Mao exhaled, resting his forehead on the beam. "I'll find it," he murmured. "Even if I have to steal the heavens themselves to do it."
He rose as if the whisper of fate itself had brushed him. His chest hummed, the warmth of the God Devouring Vein pulsing insistently, thrumming like a heartbeat separate from his own.
Below, the city's chaos did not pause. Merchants shouted, children screamed, guards stomped. Every sound, every motion, was a cue. Every opportunity was alive.
Lu Mao dropped lightly from the rooftop. Crates teetered, coins rolled, a burst of flour hung in the air. Children squealed. Guards cursed. And he vanished, leaving behind nothing but laughter.
He leapt across roofs with perfect balance, landing on broken tiles, sliding past chimneys, brushing against hanging laundry. He flicked coins into the air as distractions, sending cats scattering with a flourish of movement that seemed choreographed, yet entirely improvised. Every step, every dive, every flicker of shadow — it was instinct, art, and survival all in one.
By noon, he perched atop the tallest rooftop he could reach, treasures of the morning beside him: rice cakes, coins, the small trinket that caught sunlight like it carried secrets. He watched the streets below, noting every movement, every pattern.
The God Devouring Vein pulsed stronger now, a subtle, insistent heartbeat, threading through his nerves. Something ancient and forbidden had awakened slightly. It hummed and whispered in a language he could not yet speak, yet understood on a level beyond thought.
A soft meow drew his attention. The cat was back, weaving around his feet, tail flicking lazily.
"You know," he whispered, kneeling, voice soft and intimate, "it's lonely… sometimes. All this, this chaos, all the tricks, the stealing, the games… it's fun, yes. But fun doesn't fill the gaps. Don't you feel it too? That hollow spot in the chest? The waiting for something bigger… something dangerous… something… mine?"
The cat blinked, green eyes luminous. Its stillness made the thief's own thoughts sharper, louder. He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the pulse that was more than his own. "Yeah… I know it's there. Something calling me. Something I'm not ready for yet. But it will find me. It always finds those who are meant to see it."
The cat circled him, brushing against his leg. Lu Mao smiled faintly, a shadow of warmth spreading in his chest. "You understand me, don't you? You don't speak… but you understand. That's good. Maybe… maybe I'm not alone after all."
He leaned back against the rooftop, staring at the sky. The city roared below, oblivious. The wind tugged at his hair and sleeves. A thought drifted into his mind, almost like a memory that wasn't his own: A spark even the heavens might one day fear.
A thrill ran through him. Hunger, curiosity, desire for something unseen. And for the first time in his young life, he felt the edge of destiny brushing against him — invisible, weightless, yet undeniable.
The Thief Sage Jin Wu appeared then, moving through the rooftop haze like smoke curling from a brazier. Old robes smelled faintly of tea, sweat, and danger. He crouched beside the boy, gaze sharp.
"You call that sneaking?" the Sage growled. "I've seen cats with better control."
"Cats don't steal rice cakes, Master," Lu Mao replied, grin widening. "I do."
The old man scowled. "One day that tongue will hang you."
"Or make me famous," Lu Mao countered lightly.
The Sage snorted, fading into the morning mist. "Unpredictable brat. You'll either die young or become a legend. I cannot tell which yet."
Unpredictable. A word that fit like a name, like a promise. Beneath it, the whisper lingered: "A spark even the heavens might one day fear."
Night fell. Lanterns flickered to life, painting the streets gold and shadow. The city became a labyrinth of movement and light. Lu Mao perched atop the tallest beam he could find, treasures of the day beside him: coins, rice cakes, trinket. Proof of life. Proof of mastery.
The warmth in his chest pulsed again, stronger.
The black cat settled beside him. Its eyes glimmered in the lantern light, watching. Lu Mao rubbed its head gently. "Then I'll start with the world," he whispered, teeth glinting in the shadows.
The night swallowed his laughter as he melted into darkness — untouchable, unseen, unstoppable. And beneath his skin, a spark of forgotten light — the inheritance of a mother long lost — burned quietly, waiting for the day it would awaken fully.