The rain had not stopped in three days.
Mud thickened around the labor pit, mixing with blood, sweat, and human waste. Children and teenagers slumped against crumbling stone walls, their bones showing through skin. Hunger twisted their bellies, and fear ruled their eyes. In this graveyard of forgotten lives, something began to stir.
Muyeon stood, soaked in the storm, wooden sword resting against his shoulder. His shirt was torn, his hands wrapped in makeshift bandages. A boy—older, stronger, and crueler—charged him with a jagged stick, yelling in desperation.
Muyeon ducked under the swing. One clean strike to the side. A second to the back of the knee. The boy collapsed, gasping.
The other children watched in silence. No one interfered. This was the pit's way.
But Muyeon didn't finish the boy.
He stepped away.
The boy groaned, expecting pain, but received none. Muyeon merely glanced down and said:
"You're not worth killing."
Whispers spread through the pit like embers on dry leaves.
That night, in the darkest corner of the cave-cell where he slept, Muyeon found a small bundle of rice wrapped in cloth. Someone had left it beside his head.
He didn't eat it immediately. He sat beside it, eyes narrowing. Trust was dangerous.
The next night, it happened again. This time, the bundle was warm. Soft. Fragrant.
Dowon chuckled when he saw it.
"Seems the rats have chosen a king."
From the shadows, Muyeon finally saw her—a girl, younger than him by a year. Her hair was matted and uneven. A long scar ran from her ear to her collarbone. She never spoke. Her eyes held something ancient—pain, quiet fury, and the glint of something close to hope.
Dowon whispered her name:
"Ara. Mute since her brother was killed in the pit."
Muyeon didn't speak, but he nodded. For the first time since his mother's death, someone had offered him something without expecting anything back.
That night, Dowon and Muyeon sat beside the firepit of trash wood and stolen embers.
"Strength alone doesn't make a ruler," Dowon said, gesturing to Ara. "A leader isn't born when he wins. He's born when others decide they would bleed for him."
Muyeon didn't answer. He sat in silence, his gaze cast toward the wet stone wall across from them.
He took a sharp rock from his pocket.
Kneeling, he carved two characters beside the name he had already scratched months ago:
해인 (Haein)
연우 (Yeonwoo)
Dowon raised an eyebrow. "Who's Yeonwoo?"
Muyeon answered softly:
"Ara's brother."
Dowon didn't say anything more. But that night, his back was a little straighter, and when he fell asleep, there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Elsewhere in the pit, the boy Muyeon had defeated sat quietly, watching. The others had seen it too—he could've killed him. But he didn't.
And now, Muyeon had followers.
Not with swords.
But with memories.
Two weeks passed.
Ara continued her silent offerings. Others began nodding to Muyeon in the food lines, even if they had nothing to give. Some started mimicking his posture, watching how he balanced his feet. One boy even tied a strip of cloth around his arm like Muyeon's blood-soaked wrapping.
That boy was later found beaten in the corner, his food stolen.
Muyeon confronted the culprits—three of them.
He didn't speak. He didn't threaten.
He simply knocked out the first with a swift jab to the throat, the second with a sweep of the leg and a heel to the ribs, and the third he pinned, pressing a jagged rock to the boy's eye until he begged.
Still, Muyeon didn't kill.
He turned to the other onlookers and said only:
"He stole from one of mine. That makes it my business. Next time, I won't speak."
The System chimed softly in the back of his mind:
[Decision registered. Trait progression: Iron Authority – 22%]
That night, Ara left not only rice, but a piece of sweetroot. It must've taken her days to trade for it.
Dowon saw it and shook his head with a smile:
"They believe in you already, boy. Be careful not to become the monster they fear."
Muyeon responded, his voice low:
"No. I'll become the monster they need."
Dowon stiffened. But he said nothing.
That night, Muyeon dreamt.
He stood alone in a field of ash. The sky above was black, burning embers floating downward like snowfall. In the center of the field stood a throne made of swords, all rusted, twisted, and stained with old blood.
A voice whispered:
"You are not ready to sit upon me… but you are walking the path."
When Muyeon awoke, he felt something different.
He opened his hand, expecting nothing.
There, wrapped in twine, was a dull shard of steel—too small to be a sword, but heavier than stone.
It hadn't been there before.
System Notification:
[Memory Echo: Blade of Ash]
A remnant of the path to power. Carved from your will. It will sharpen as you do.
Muyeon gripped it tightly.
The pit was still, but not silent. Change was coming.
And the fire, once hidden in the mud, was beginning to rise.