Orin slipped back into the orphanage just as the sky turned gray, the first light of dawn creeping over the trees. He had stayed in the forest all night, it wasn't easy.
His hand throbbed under the black cloth, still raw from the cut Old Han had him make.
His head felt heavy, like a rock was rattling inside it, but he pulled his hoodie up and trudged toward the gate. He couldn't heal as easily as he did, he couldn't heal at all. This one needed time, it wasn't just a physical injury, this had to do with his spirit vein, and the pain was inflicted on him by forbidden arts, forbidden arts won't heal it. It had to be expelled from his body, and he needed spirit vein to expell the dark energy from his body, that was just how it worked.
Every step ached—he'd pushed too hard last night. Scar stood there, leaning against the gatepost, eyes darting around. "Boss! Where have you been? I was worried sick! Grit asked again where you were. I said you're running errands late—fetching extra wood or something."
He started speaking the moment he saw Orin, clearly happy. He had seemed to forget the animosity he had for Orin immediately.
Orin nodded, keeping his face blank. "Good. Keep it up." He brushed past, heading for his room.
Scar's nervous stammering followed him, but he didn't look back. The guy was holding—for now.
He barely made it inside when the matron's voice barked across the courtyard. " Work's waiting!" Orin groaned inwardly, dragging himself out. She was yelling at the workers, but he knew she would come after him already.
She stood by a pile of logs, arms crossed, with Scar at her side scanning the kids. Her eyes locked on Orin, narrowing slightly. "You," she snapped, pointing at the wood. "Haul this to the shed. Then scrub the floors 'til they shine. No food 'til it's done."
She turned away, muttering to Grit, "Lazy brat's slowing down."Orin bent to grab a log, his left hand shaking as he lifted. The cut from last night had sapped him—he felt weaker, slower. He gritted his teeth and heaved the wood, stumbling a bit.
Scar watched from a few feet away, a worried expression painting his face. "Boss... He's Looking a lot paler than usual since he came back, this is a great chance to prove my loyalty to him."
Orin kept on stacking the logs by the shed. Halfway through, Grit sauntered over and kicked his leg—hard.
"Move faster!" The blow stung, he was already very much exhausted, he couldn't take any more harsh treatments.
Orin clenched his jaw, holding it back. Not here, not now.
"B-boss!" Scar shouted, hurrying over.
Grit raised a brow, staring at him, surprise written all over his face. "B-boss?"
"Crap!" Scar thought inwardly. "What do I do?"
His brain wasn't always that useful, but it chose this moment to proffer a solution.
"I was talking to you." He said, pointing towards Grit.
Grit paused for s moment, then he laughed. "Ah! Of course I am your boss!" Then he started laughing. It was mirthful, albeit foolish.
Scar joined in the laughter. Then he quickly spoke. "Alright then, boss. Let me take care of this boy, the Matron would need your assistance!"
"Aha, good work, good work." Grit said to Scar, patting his shoulder before walking away.
When he left, Scar exhaled loudly, his chest coming down. Orin flashed a weak smile at him.
When the logs were done, he grabbed a bucket and rag, kneeling to scrub the hall floor. The other workers shuffled around, but he was alone for a moment.
Orin glanced at his wrapped hand, then pressed the cut through the cloth. Pain flared, sharp and quick. Dark qi swirled under his skin, seeping into his vein. He focused, pushing it inward like Old Han said. A jolt hit his chest—his crippled vein twitched again, stronger this time. A thin stream of natural qi flowed, faint but clearer than last night. His head spun, vision blurring at the edges, but he muttered, "It's working."
He stopped, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose. Slow and steady—he couldn't rush it.
However, he would do it whenever he got the chance, this pain, this weakness that he was feeling wasn't going to disappear until he had unblocked his spirit vein and expelled the dark qui from his body.
Grit's boots clomped back into the hall. Orin yanked his sleeve down, hiding the cloth as Grit passed, oblivious. "Keep scrubbing, rat," Grit grunted, kicking the bucket so water sloshed out.
Orin kept his head down, mopping it up. By midday, the floors gleamed, and Orin's arms burned from the work. He stood, stretching, when Grit's shadow fell over him. "Matron wants you," Grit said, voice flat.
Orin followed, stomach sinking.She waited in the courtyard, hands on her hips. "You've been slipping out too much," she said, stepping closer. "Last night, the night before—where are you going?" Her eyes flicked to his wrapped hand, lingering.
"No more wandering. You're staying where I can see you."Before he could answer, she jerked her head at Grit. "Lock him in the shed 'til tomorrow. No food, no breaks." Grit grabbed his arm, dragging him across the yard.
She faced another worker who was standing beside her. "He's hiding a trick...call the thug."
Orin didn't fight—he'd save his strength. The shed door slammed shut, the lock clicking loud in the quiet.He sat against the wall, the dim light filtering through cracks. His hand ached, but he unwrapped the cloth, staring at the tattoo. It glowed faintly.
He needed Old Han—needed the next step. The matron was onto him, and Scar's excuses wouldn't hold forever. He had to get out of here.
Scar's voice quickly broke into the room, panicked and stressed. "Boss! They are closing in! Wait a moment, I would get you out of here!"
He sounded rushed and in a hurry, Orin didn't know what was happening, but he knew that he couldn't help himself in this current situation, there was only one thing to do.
Orin quickly unwrapped his hand, he let the dark qi seep out him, then he channeled it into the wound, pushing it into his veins.
He had to force the process.