Ash walked the back alleys of Blackflame City like a ghost.
The city was a forest of smoke and secrets, its heartbeat pulsing through canals of corruption, deals whispered in silence, and the broken dreams of the forgotten. But Ash wasn't hunting prey tonight.
He was recruiting.
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The Forge of Purpose
Ash stood alone beneath the broken arches of a ruined watchtower on the city's edge, the same place where he had killed the Yin assassins days before. The cinders were cold, the ash settled—but his resolve burned brighter than ever.
The fight had taught him something crucial.
He couldn't win alone.
Not against a clan like the Yin, who had power, information networks, paid thugs, and entire sect branches in their pocket. Killing a few of their shadows was only the beginning.
He needed more than fire.
He needed discipline. Unity. Tactics. Precision.
He needed a team.
> "Not a sect," he muttered to himself. "Not a cult. Not a gang. A unit."
His mind flashed back to Earth—squads moving like silent wraiths through warzones, covering angles, communicating without words. A single soldier could be overwhelmed. A trained fireteam, however, could devastate an army.
> "Crimson Fang Unit," he said aloud. "That's what we'll be."
> "You name your army after yourself?" the serpent scoffed. "Vain."
> "No," Ash replied. "I name it after the flame that brought me back."
> "Hmph. At least you're not trying to start a church."
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The Market of Flesh
Ash's first step wasn't a grand recruitment—he went where no cultivator of pride would dare.
The Undermarket—a festering rot beneath the city's veins. Here, slaves were bought and sold, not in open auctions, but in curtained stalls behind gambling dens and black alchemy shops.
He walked past cages of men and women: starved, broken, their eyes dulled by years of chains.
To most, they were worthless.
But Ash had something others didn't.
A serpent that had seen ages of fire.
> "That one," the serpent hissed. "The blind one. His spirit is frayed, but I see a spark behind his eyes."
Ash turned toward a hunched, rag-wrapped figure slumped near a drain grate. His eyes were fogged white—but his fingers twitched in rhythmic patterns.
> "Who is he?" Ash asked the slave master.
> "Beggar. Useless. Refuses to speak. Was caught stealing grain."
> "I'll take him."
> "Are you mad?"
Ash dropped two fire jades on the table. "Do I look mad?"
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The Forgotten Talents
He moved stall to stall.
A mute girl with twitching hands and a mark across her spine—one the serpent called "a gate of distorted time."
A limping boy who coughed blood but whose fire core pulsed like a volcano beneath layers of suppressed qi.
A skeletal woman with deep scars who hid a Soul Mark shaped like a coiling script—a rare illusion affinity, if cultivated.
Ash bought them all.
He took seven slaves by night's end. Most for less than the cost of a beast hide.
> "You collect trash," the serpent said.
> "No," Ash corrected. "I'm collecting firewood. The right spark will make them burn."
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The Naming Ritual
Back at Marla's hidden warehouse, Ash had them washed, fed, and given basic healing salves. Most cowered, expecting beatings or chains.
Instead, Ash knelt before them as equals.
> "I don't own you," he said. "You're free. But if you stay—you fight."
> "You'll train. You'll bleed. You'll break. But if you follow me... I'll make you strong enough to rewrite your fate."
They said nothing.
But for the first time, a flicker of life returned to some of their eyes.
He handed them fire-crystal tokens, etched crudely with a fang symbol. A promise. A beginning.
> "You sound like a commander again," the serpent whispered.
> "Because I am."
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Marla's Warnings
Later that night, Marla found him kneeling by a crate, wiping blood off training blades.
> "You're making an army?"
> "A unit."
> "From slaves?"
Ash didn't answer immediately.
> "I don't need nobles. I need survivors."
> "They'll betray you," she warned. "That's what happens when you give hope to the broken."
> "Not if I show them something worth fighting for."
> "And what's that?"
He stood, looking out the warehouse window toward the glowing city spires.
> "Justice. Fire. And a future without fear."
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The First Drill
By dawn, he had them in formation.
He taught them silent signals, corner clearing, group cover maneuvers—concepts foreign to this world. The serpent mocked their clumsiness.
But Ash smiled.
Because they were learning.
Not how to be cultivators—
But how to be a unit.
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End of Chapter 11