The moon bled crimson over Luo Family Hamlet, a forgotten speck in the Jade Dragon Mountains of the Great Yan Empire. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of millet and pine. Inside the Chen clan compound, laughter rang—until the first scream.
Chen Wuya, sixteen, thin as a winter reed, knelt by the hearth. His twin sisters, Lan and Hua, eight years old, braided each other's hair with red ribbon. Their mother, Liu Mei, stirred porridge in a blue-and-white rice bowl, humming a lullaby. Their father, Chen Tiequan, the village blacksmith, sharpened a plow blade outside.
Wuya clutched a cracked clay cup, pretending to drink. He was small for his age, ribs visible under patched robes. The other boys mocked him: "Kitchen rat." He didn't care. Tonight, Father promised to teach him forging.
Then the gate exploded.
Zhao Heng, the Iron-Fist King, strode through the splintered wood. Black silk robes embroidered with a crimson wolf, jaws dripping gold thread. His Heaven-Devil Gauntlets—forged from meteorite iron and demon bone—hummed with malevolent qi. Twenty Crimson Wolf Enforcers fanned behind him, sabers gleaming.
Chen Tiequan roared, charging with his forging hammer. Zhao caught the blow in one palm. The hammer shattered. Metal shards pinged off the gauntlet. Zhao's fist punched through Tiequan's chest—ribs cracked like dry bamboo, heart pulp squirted between iron fingers. He lifted the body an inch, let it drop. Blood pooled, thick as ink, soaking the dirt.
Liu Mei screamed. She grabbed a kitchen knife, slashed at Zhao's thigh. The blade snapped against demonic silk. Zhao backhanded her. She flew, spine snapping against the mud wall—vertebrae #4 and #5 pulverized into dust. She slid down, legs twitching, eyes wide.
Lan and Hua ran to her. "Mama!"
Zhao Heng stomped.
Lan's skull caved under the boot—brain matter oozed like pink tofu. Hua's neck twisted 180 degrees, eyes bulging, tongue lolling. Their small bodies folded like burnt paper dolls.
Wuya froze beneath the kitchen table, clutching the blue rice bowl. The porridge had spilled; now it held his heartbeat—thump-thump, thump-thump. He bit his tongue until blood filled his mouth. Don't scream. Don't scream.
Zhao's voice was gravel. "Find the Blood Jade Mine ledger. The Chen clan hid it."
An enforcer kicked the table. Wuya's breath stopped. The boot hovered an inch from his face. Another shouted from the bedroom: "Got it, my lord!"
Zhao nodded. "Burn the rest."
Lamp oil poured. Flames licked the walls, hungry. Zhao paused at the threshold, glanced back—directly at the table. Wuya's heart stopped.
But Zhao only smiled, teeth white as bone. "Let the rats burn."
The door shut. Fire roared.
Wuya crawled out the back window, bowl clutched to his chest. He ran to the pigsty, buried himself in manure and straw. The compound became a pyre. Screams of neighbors rose, then silenced. When the wolves left, he returned.
Father's eyes stared at the rafters, mouth open in a silent roar. Mother's hand reached for the twins, fingers curled like claws. Lan's braid had burned away on one side. Hua's ribbon smoldered.He took his father's cracked forging hammer, wrapped it in a blood-soaked cloth. The empire was vast. Crimson Palace. Blood Sand City. Somewhere, Zhao grew fat on stolen mines.
Wuya had no map.
Only hunger.
Only hate.
He walked south, barefoot, into the dark.
Wuya found a broken hoe. The earth was hard, frozen. He dug one grave behind the smithy, hands bleeding. The twins fit together like puzzle pieces. Mother's body was heavier; he dragged her by the ankles. Father last—he had to break the arms to fit.
He placed the blue rice bowl on the mound. Knelt. The night was cold. His tears froze on his cheeks.
"I will find you in every wolf I kill," he whispered, voice raw. "I will be the last thing Zhao Heng sees."
End of Chapter 1