The servant quarters of Dark Star Nocturne were a maze of crumbling stone and damp air, its narrow alleys lit by flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows against moss-streaked walls. The scent of mold mingled with faint herbal traces, remnants of treatments and poultices used by those too poor for real medicine. The quarters, pressed between towering spires and underground cisterns, felt more like a dungeon than a place of rest.
Song stepped into the row of tiny rooms—cramped cells barely larger than the one he'd woken in a month ago. The ceilings were low, the walls stained with years of smoke and decay, each unit nearly identical: a straw cot barely fit for sleep, a splintered table, and a blank metal nameplate rusted by time. He walked past several, inspecting them briefly, before stopping at the first one that didn't stink too strongly of rot. Without ceremony, he took a piece of charcoal from his belt pouch and scrawled his name on the nameplate in sharp strokes.
"My sanctuary, for now," he muttered under his breath. His fingers, once raw from burns and work, flexed more easily now—nearly healed, thanks to the slow regenerative hum of his Lord's tattoo. The air was thick, almost oppressive, but comforting in its familiarity. Mold, ash, and dried herbs—this was the world of a gatherer.
Still, his thoughts were far from nostalgia. They were fire-bound, fixed on the elusive whispers of Law.
In the corner, a small iron brazier sat covered in soot. Song dragged it into the center of the room, its legs groaning across the stone floor. He reached into his bag, pulling out a few sticks of dried wood and a firestarter. The flame caught slowly, casting jittery shadows on the walls as the fire began to breathe. He sat cross-legged in front of it, the familiar crackle a steady rhythm in the silence.
No time to waste.
He stared into the fire, dark eyes locked on the kindling as it curled and blackened. Sixteen? Seventeen? The years blurred together, and none of them had been easy. Most geniuses had already begun touching the Laws at three or four years old. They had teachers, libraries, bloodlines. He had none of that—just a cheap token, a beginner's scroll, and his stubborn will. A First Lord among cultivators who'd already touched the stars.
He summoned his interface:
The path he'd chosen was crude, brutal—direct absorption through pain. Few attempted it, even fewer survived. It lacked finesse, lacked guidance. Mentors would have called it madness. But he had no choice. If he stagnated now, he'd be trampled beneath the feet of the elite.
I'll endure.
The coals were glowing, red-hot now. Song inhaled, braced himself, and plunged his hands into the brazier.
He expected agony. Blistering pain. But instead—
Warmth. A deep, comforting heat, like soft sand under the summer sun. He blinked, startled. A lightness rushed through his chest, his mind brushing against something intangible yet potent. A spark. A whisper.
The Fire Law.
I touched it.
Joy surged through him, catching in his throat. It had only been a glimpse, a sliver of understanding—but even that was a miracle. For a First Lord to reach this stage in just a month? Unthinkable.
He leaned against the wall, exhausted but exultant. His interface pinged softly:
Fire Law Comprehension: +1%
Time blurred. He lost himself in the brazier's glow, pausing only to chew dry rations and gulp water. Hunger clawed at him, but he ignored it. Fire demanded sacrifice.
Again and again, he thrust his hands into the coals. Pain faded each time. His tattoo pulsed, healing minor burns, its regenerative power responding to the rhythm of his suffering. With every session, the spark grew brighter, the concept clearer. Fire danced not to consume—but to transform.
He pushed until exhaustion claimed him, collapsing on the cot in a haze. Dreams came: fire, shifting shapes, whispers in an unknown tongue. He woke hungry. Starving.
Need food.
He stepped out into the alleys of the servant quarter, the sky above a dull, unfeeling gray. The communal kitchen offered little—stale bread, thin soup—but it would suffice. He ate quickly, thoughts already back on the brazier. Fire would forge him. Fire would elevate him.
As he returned to his room, cutting through a narrow passage beside the courtyard, a sudden chill rippled down his spine. His Perception flared.
Danger.
Someone was here.
He slowed, breath shallow. The air shifted, the silence too deliberate. His door was ajar.
A voice echoed from within.
"Found you, kid. Nice setup."
Song stepped inside, heart pounding. Hell stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, smirking. His tattoos shimmered faintly—shapes writhing beneath the skin like coiled serpents.
Not fully formed?
Song's jaw clenched.
"Hell," he said, keeping his voice level.
The man grinned wider. "Quiet, huh? Not happy to see me?"
He took a step forward, hand clamping down on Song's shoulder. The grip was iron, fingers digging into bruised skin.
"Got a question for you, kid. Where'd you get the Merit Points for this cozy little room? Two years' rent isn't servant-level stuff."
Song remained silent, expression blank.
Hell's smile thinned. "And why's Lunar Phoenix reporting that some no-name kid sold a Forest Soul?"
Song's gut twisted. So he knew.
The grip tightened, pain blooming in his shoulder.
"Five seconds, kid, or I break it. Where'd you get the points?"
Song met his gaze, defiant. "Go to hell."
Hell chuckled, low and mean. "Oh, really? So the servant trash has fangs now?"
He leaned in, whisper cold and sharp. "Tell me, or I'll make sure you don't cultivate anything but pain for the rest of your life."
Song's silence was his answer.
With a sickening crunch, Hell's grip snapped bone. White-hot agony exploded through Song's arm as he dropped to his knees, vision swimming.
He gasped, sweat slicking his forehead. Hell's voice hovered above him, cruel and satisfied.
"That was the shoulder. Next comes the wrist."
To be continued…