Empyreal Year 2536, 4th Month, 12th Day.
Chén Yè had learned early that survival meant paying attention.
The gossip sheets weren't meant for orphans like him—they cost three coppers at the corner stand, and he hadn't seen three coppers in his pockets since last winter. But the vendor was lazy, the morning crowd was thick, and if Chén Yè was careful, he could slip one from the pile. He read it in the alley behind the bakery, the scent of hot bread and burnt sugar a cruel taunt to his empty stomach, and returned it before anyone noticed.
Not stealing. Borrowing.
Today's headlines made his hands still:
BARON'S DAUGHTER FLEES TESTING — SEARCH UNDERWAY
He scanned the text quickly, committing details to memory. The girl had been identified as having a connection to a concept. Divine existence material. The kind of discovery that should have brought honor to her family.
Instead, she'd run.
Chén Yè understood why.
The war might be distant from the capital's gates, but it wasn't invisible. Every week, divine existences staggered back through the border checkpoints—some wounded, some dying, some already dead. He'd seen bodies carried through the streets at dawn, when the city officials thought no one was watching.
Divine existences were dying like chickens in a plague.
And someone had to replace them.
The testing wasn't an honor. It was a draft notice.
He folded the gossip sheet carefully, his movements precise and silent, and slipped it back onto the pile. The vendor never looked up.
He saw her three days later.
Pure accident—he'd been cutting through the old temple district, looking for a dry place to sleep. The abandoned shrine to some forgotten river god was supposed to be empty, its faith as dead as the deity it honored. But movement near the broken altar caught his eye.
A girl, crouched low, digging through the offering bowls.
Looking for food.
Her clothes were fine quality—noble-born, no question—but dirt-stained now, torn at the hem. Dark hair, tangled and greasy, fell loose around a face that was sharp with a new, desperate hunger. She worked quickly, methodically, like someone who'd learned desperation recently.
Chén Yè pressed himself against the cold stone of the wall, watching. A familiar ache, the ghost of his own hunger, echoed in his gut. He pushed the feeling down. Pity was a stone that drowned desperate swimmers.
She found a few old offerings—dried fruit someone had left weeks ago, half a loaf of stale bread wrapped in cloth. Not much. Barely enough for a day.
She gathered them carefully, tucked them into her sleeve as if they were jewels, and slipped back toward the shadows.
He recognized her profile as she passed through a single, damning shaft of moonlight.
The baron's daughter.
Chén Yè stood frozen long after she'd gone.
He could pretend he hadn't seen her. Walk away. This wasn't his business.
But usefulness was currency.
And he had so little of it.
His mind turned the problem over slowly, a cold, transactional calculus. If he reported her, what would he get? Nobles always paid for information. Maybe a few coppers. Maybe silver. Maybe nothing, if they decided a street orphan's word wasn't worth trusting.
He spent two days weighing the choice.
Not because he felt guilty—guilt was a luxury he couldn't afford—but because he needed to be sure. The risk had to be worth the reward.
He got his answer on the third day.
The notice went up in the market square, written in formal script on expensive, cream-colored paper that seemed to mock the grimy wall it was pasted on.
REWARD OFFERED
Twenty gold marks for information leading to the recovery of the Baron's missing daughter.
Additional favor granted to those who render service to the household.
Twenty gold marks.
Chén Yè stared at the notice until the words blurred.
Twenty gold marks could feed him for a year. Maybe two if he was careful. Buy decent clothes, not just rags. Rent a room with a real roof, one that didn't leak when it rained. Maybe even apprentice somewhere, learn a trade, build something that looked like a future.
Favor with a baron's household could mean work. Protection. A life.
He looked at the notice for a long time, the paper a promise of a life he'd only ever dreamed of.
He closed his eyes, took one steadying breath, and turned away from the market square.
His steps were slow at first, then quicker, each one a nail in the coffin of the girl's freedom.
He didn't look back.
"I know where the baron's daughter is hiding," he told the officer at the desk, his voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside.
The man looked up slowly, his eyes narrowed with practiced suspicion. "Do you, now?"
"The old river shrine. Temple district. She's been sheltering there."
"And you're certain it's her?"
Chén Yè met his gaze, his own eyes holding a cold, unnerving certainty. "I'm certain."
The officer studied him for a long moment—taking in the threadbare clothes, the too-thin frame, the calculating, ancient look in a child's eyes.
"Wait here," he said finally.
The guards found her before sunset.
Chén Yè didn't watch them bring her in. He didn't need to see the result of his transaction.
He collected his reward two days later—a purse heavy with the impossible weight of gold, and a sealed letter promising the favor of Baron Liang's household.
He told himself it was the right choice.
He told himself he'd do it again.
He almost believed it.
Two days after that, they summoned him to the baron's estate.
A servant led him to a side room, a place of polished wood and silk cushions nicer than any he'd ever sat in. He kept his hands folded in his lap so his dirt wouldn't touch anything.
When the official finally arrived, he didn't waste time.
"You reported the girl's location. Useful service." The man set a small purse on the table. It clinked with additional coin. "Bonus for a swift resolution."
Chén Yè reached for it.
The official's hand caught his wrist, the grip surprisingly strong.
"One more thing," the man said. "Standard procedure. We'll need to test you."
Chén Yè's stomach dropped. "Test?"
"For potential. Won't take long." The official smiled, but it was a smile of polished stone; it didn't reach his eyes. "Just a formality. You understand."
The testing chamber was cold and silent.
Three officials stood in a triangle around him. Chén Yè could feel something pressing in on him—not physical, but present. It was a pressure that started in his bones, a cold, clinical curiosity that sifted through his soul, searching for a spark. It was not a violent presence, but an unnervingly thorough one, like a librarian taking inventory of a dusty, forgotten shelf.
He felt like a specimen under glass.
He wasn't worried.
He'd grown up around enough street mystics to know he had no power. He was as mundane as the stones beneath his feet. The test would confirm it, he'd take his coin, and—
One of the officials gasped.
Chén Yè's eyes snapped open.
All three were staring at him now. Not with disappointment. Not with dismissal.
With hunger.
"Positive," one whispered, his voice trembling with shock. "Connection detected."
"Impossible," Chén Yè blurted out, the words escaping before he could stop them. "I don't—there's been a mistake—"
"No mistake," the lead official stepped forward, his smile now predatory. "You have a connection to a concept, boy. A strong one."
The room tilted.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
"I can't—I don't want—" Chén Yè took a step back. "I'm not going to your war. I'm not—"
He ran.
Didn't think. Didn't plan. Just pure, primal instinct. A cornered rat bolting for a crack in the wall.
He made it three steps before divine power slammed into him like a physical wall.
The world spun. He hit the ground hard, tasted blood. One of his teeth came loose—he felt it rattle in his mouth before he spat it out onto the cold stone floor.
Hands grabbed him. Yanked him upright.
He tried to bite the arm that held him—pure panic, animal instinct.
A fist answered, crunching into his jaw. More teeth gone. Pain exploded through his skull.
Then darkness.
He awoke with a gasp, cold water shocking the air from his lungs.
Rough, mocking laughter echoed in the cavernous space around him.
"Wake up, you filthy thing!" a guard's voice boomed.
Chén Yè blinked water from his eyes, his body already trying to curl into a defensive ball. Two guards stood over him, both grinning, both radiating a pressure that his newly awakened senses could now feel.
They were divine existences.
Before he could speak, he was yanked off the cold stone, his feet dangling uselessly. A single hand held his entire weight effortlessly.
"Don't get too comfortable, you scoundrel," the first guard said.
The other one slammed a fist into his face.
Pain burst across his cheek. His vision went white, then red, then steadied into swimming doubles.
"You were running your mouth before," the first guard sneered. "What happened? Forget how your tongue works?"
"Don't tell me you got hit so hard you've got amnesia!" the second one laughed.
They both thought this was hilarious.
Chén Yè's head rang. His mouth tasted like copper and salt. He tried to remember how he'd gotten here—the reward, the summons, the testing, the running, the pain—
Oh.
Oh, no.
The guards had stopped laughing. One of them was watching him with cold amusement.
"There it is. The little rat remembers."
They dropped him. He hit the stone floor hard but barely felt it through the haze of dawning horror.
Rage boiled in his chest—hot and useless and stupid. But outwardly, he kept his face blank. Neutral.
He was facing two divine existences. Low-ranked, perhaps, but still powerful enough to kill him with a thought. And no one would hold them accountable.
The strong ruled this world.
Always had.
---
He'd heard the rumors, of course. Whispers in the market, carefully worded gossip in the sheets he borrowed.
The king was a puppet. Everyone knew it, even if no one said it aloud.
His Majesty sat on the throne, but the nobles stood behind him—and every noble house worth the name had birthed at least one divine existence. Some had entire families of them.
So who really ruled? The man with the crown, or the ones with the *power*?
Chén Yè had always understood how to survive in a world like this.
Respect and humility only got you so far. What truly mattered was *usefulness*. If you were valuable, you were safe. If you weren't...
Well.
He'd been useful, hadn't he? Turned in the girl. Accepted the reward.
And now he was here.
Karma, maybe. Or just proof that usefulness only delayed the inevitable.
---
One of the guards kicked him.
Not hard—just enough to make him move.
"Get up. Inspection's in an hour. You'll want to be presentable." The guard sneered. "Not that it'll help."
They left, still laughing.
---
Chén Yè lay on the cold stone for a moment longer, letting the pain settle into something manageable. His ribs ached. His face throbbed. The gaps where his teeth used to be felt wrong.
But he was alive.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright.
He looked up from the floor. The room was massive—more a hall than a chamber. Stone walls, high ceiling, narrow windows near the top that let in a pale, sickly light.
And children.
Hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand.
All young. Some in torn, fine clothes. Others in street rags. All of them had the same look in their eyes.
Fear. Confusion. Despair.
They'd been taken, just like him.
Tested. Found useful.
Drafted.
His gaze scanned the room, looking for... he didn't know what. An exit. An ally.
His gaze stopped.
In the corner, near a support pillar, a girl sat with her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Dark hair. A torn dress that had once been fine.
He knew her.
The baron's daughter.
His stomach twisted into a knot of cold iron.
She hadn't seen him yet. Or maybe she had, and was deliberately not looking.
He took a half-step toward her—not sure why, not sure what he'd even say—
"Xīng Hé!" someone called from across the hall.
The girl turned toward the voice, and Chén Yè froze.
Xīng Hé.
So that was her name.
He stood there, rooted to the spot, watching her speak quietly to another child. She looked calm. Composed.
He had betrayed her for twenty gold marks and the promise of a future.
And now they were both here.
Trapped in the same hall. Marked for the same war. Waiting for the same fate.
Somewhere above them, a bell tolled, its sound echoing like a death knell.
The Inspection was starting.
End of Chapter 1