The ashes of Luo Family Hamlet still smoldered when dawn broke, gray and bitter. Chen Wuya had not slept. For three days he crouched in the ruins of his home, a blue rice bowl cradled against his chest like a newborn. The bowl was cracked down the middle, glazed with soot and dried blood. Inside: a shallow pool of rainwater mixed with ash and tears.
He had not eaten. Hunger gnawed, but he welcomed it. Pain keeps the vow alive.
Day 1.
Wuya crawled through the wreckage. The forge was a skeleton of iron beams. He found his father's anvil—half-melted, still warm. Beneath it: a nail, bent but sharp. He took it.
He returned to the grave mound. The earth had settled. Flies buzzed over the shallow pit. Wuya knelt. With the nail, he carved into the bowl's inner rim:
陈铁拳 – Chen Tiequan
刘梅 – Liu Mei
兰 – Lan
华 – Hua
Each stroke drew blood from his fingers. The characters were crooked, childlike. But they were permanent. When the nail slipped, he pressed harder. The bowl cracked further. A shard fell into the ash-water. He drank it anyway—ash, blood, rainwater. The taste was iron and childhood.
"You are my heart now," he whispered to the bowl. "If you break, I break."
Night 1.
Wolves came—real ones, drawn by death. Three gray beasts circled the ruins. Wuya clutched the forging hammer. His hands shook. The lead wolf lunged. Wuya swung. The hammer connected with the snout—crunch. Bone shards flew. The wolf yelped, retreated. The pack followed.
Wuya did not chase. He was too weak. But he learned: fear travels both ways.
Day 2.
He scavenged. A charred sweet potato. Half a rice cake, mouse-gnawed. He ate the clean half, saved the rest in the bowl. The cracked rim now held four names and a new one, scratched with the nail:
赵恒 – Zhao Heng
The Iron-Fist King's name sat beneath his family's like a curse.
He found a child's sandal in the rubble—Lan's. The ribbon was burned black. He tied it around the bowl's handle. A trophy. A reminder.
Night 2.
Fever came. The manure from the pigsty had infected cuts on his legs. Pus oozed. He lay in the smithy's shadow, shivering. In delirium, he saw his sisters.
"Brother, why didn't you save us?"
He screamed. The sound echoed off the mountains. No one answered.
Day 3.
Strength failed. Wuya tried to stand, collapsed. The bowl slipped, rolled. He crawled after it, nails scraping dirt. A shadow fell over him.
Venerable Mo, a wandering monk of the Black Cliff Monastery, stood cloaked in gray. His staff was ironwood, tipped with a human skull. His eyes were pits—empty, ancient.
"Child," he rasped, voice like grinding stones, "your eyes are older than your bones."
Wuya tried to rise. The hammer dragged in his hand.
"Kill… me…" he croaked. "Or… take me… to Zhao Heng."
Mo crouched. He lifted the bowl, studied the names. His finger traced 赵恒.
"The Crimson Wolf King? You'd be dead before the gates."
Wuya spat blood. "Then… teach me… to kill him."
Mo's laugh was dry leaves. "Black Cliff does not teach. It breaks. Then rebuilds. Stronger. Crueler."
He slung Wuya over his shoulder like a sack of rice. The boy's vision blurred. The last thing he saw: the blue rice bowl clutched in Mo's skeletal hand.
The Journey to Black Cliff
Seven days through mountain passes. Mo carried Wuya when he collapsed, forced him to walk when he could. No food unless Wuya begged. No water unless he earned it—by reciting the names in the bowl.
"Chen Tiequan. Liu Mei. Lan. Hua. Zhao Heng."
Each time, Mo nodded. Each time, Wuya's voice grew harder.
On the fifth night, they camped in a cave. Mo produced a wolf heart—raw, still dripping.
"Eat. Absorb its killing intent."
Wuya hesitated. Mo slapped him. "Mercy is a luxury. You are poor."
Wuya tore into the heart with teeth. Blood ran down his chin. The taste was copper and rage. Something shifted inside him—cold, hungry.
Arrival at Black Cliff Monastery
The monastery perched on a cliff above the South Sea, black stone slick with salt and blood. No gates. Only a bridge of bones—human femurs lashed with sinew. Monks in gray robes trained in the courtyard:
One punched a stone pillar until his knuckles bled.
Another hung upside-down, skin flayed in strips, meditating.
A third strangled a live wolf with bare hands.
Mo dumped Wuya at the feet of Abbot Hei, a giant with iron rings piercing his eyelids.
"A new rat," Mo said. "Name him Wuya—Boundless. He carries a bowl of hate."
Abbot Hei studied the cracked bowl. The names. The blood.
"Break him," he commanded. "Then see what rises."
First Test
They stripped Wuya. Threw him into the Bone Pit—a circular arena of packed earth, walls lined with skulls. Ten novice monks, ages 14–18, circled him. Each held a wooden staff.
"Survive one hour," Abbot Hei said. "Or join the walls."
The first staff cracked Wuya's ribs. He fell. The second split his lip. Blood filled his mouth. He crawled to the bowl—placed in the center like bait.
A monk laughed. "Look, the rat wants his toy!"
Wuya grabbed the bowl. Used it as a shield. A staff shattered against it. Porcelain shards exploded. One sliced the monk's cheek—deep, to the bone.
Wuya smiled.
He picked up a shard. Sharp. Deadly.
The fight turned.
He slashed the monk's throat—artery spray painted the skulls red. Another charged. Wuya ducked, drove the shard into the boy's eye. Pop. The orb burst. The monk screamed, clawing at his face.
Wuya moved like a cornered beast.
Staff to the knee—crack.
Shard to the throat—gurgle.
Bowl rim to the temple—crunch.
When the hour ended, seven monks lay dead or dying. Wuya stood in the center, bowl shard in hand, body a map of bruises. Blood dripped from his chin.
Abbot Hei nodded.
"The rat has teeth. Begin the Iron Corpse Forging."
Wuya was dragged to the Refining Chamber. A cauldron of boiling oil. Iron chains.
He clutched the broken bowl shard—now his only relic.
The monks chanted.
The oil hissed.
"Chen Tiequan. Liu Mei. Lan. Hua. Zhao Heng."
The names were his anchor.
The pain would be his blade.
End of Chapter 2