The Red Desolate Region had never rewarded ambition.
It was a small nation, limited in both land and influence, made up of ten cities scattered across what had once been a seabed. The ground here did not grow crops easily. It remembered pressure better than life—compacted salt, mineral sediment, stone pressed flat by time rather than softened by water.
Roads were not built so much as worn into existence. Gravel paths carved by wheels, hooves, and boots that had learned—sometimes through collapse—where the land would hold.
Trade continued because it had to.
Grain moved inward. Salt and ore moved outward. Low-grade spirit materials passed from hand to hand at fixed intervals. The region did not prosper, but it endured, and in the Red Desolate Region, endurance itself was considered success.
Movement between cities never truly stopped.
Because of that, it was never safe.
Caravans did not travel unguarded. Not because bandits were numerous, but because banditry here was organized. Certain roads were owned. Certain passes were taxed. Those who refused payment were corrected publicly, not out of cruelty, but efficiency. Violence in this region was not emotional.
It was economic.
This was normal.
What was no longer normal—what only sect records and half-rotted tablets still acknowledged—was that this land had once been an ocean.
In ancient times, an immortal had fallen into that sea. Slain, according to the surviving fragments. Immortal blood did not disperse like mortal blood. It carried law, pressure, consequence. The sea could not endure it.
Over centuries, the waters receded. Some evaporated. Some were absorbed. Some were simply no longer permitted to exist. What remained was land faintly stained red beneath layers of dust and stone.
Thus, the Red Desolate Region.
Smoke City was one of the ten.
Kael had never belonged to its inner streets.
He knew the outer paths by feel—the uneven stones, the places where sound lingered too long, the corners where guards pretended not to see. He had learned the middle routes later, the ones used for work and trade, where attention sharpened but did not yet bite.
The Inner District was different.
Forbidden, and just as expensive.
As they approached the waiting carriage, slag piles lined the road, dark and half-buried. Old furnaces sat cold and abandoned, their chimneys broken, their mouths blackened by years of use.
The carriage waiting there was plain.
Thick wood. Iron fittings. No ornament. Built to last rather than impress.
The driver did not look at Kael twice.
"Elder Song," the Tenth Senior Brother said, giving the driver a short nod.
Kael followed suit, bowing awkwardly.
Kael climbed inside and sat near the edge, posture unconsciously restrained. Across from him, the Tenth Senior Brother sprawled with practiced ease, one arm draped across the backrest as though the carriage belonged to him by default.
"Sit and enjoy the ride, Junior Brother," the Tenth said casually, his gaze drifting toward the street beyond, as if lost in thought.
Kael adjusted without answering.
The wheels turned.
The forge compound receded. The sound of hammer striking iron faded. Smoke City closed around them.
They passed through the outer streets first.
Kael recognized them immediately—vendors calling prices, laborers moving with tired efficiency, faces that did not linger on strangers. Here, no one looked at him twice. He was just another small shape tucked behind an older one.
That was the city's default cruelty.
Silent erasure.
The carriage did not stop.
The road smoothed beneath the wheels. Buildings straightened. Walls grew cleaner. Painted signs gave way to engraved plaques. Noise did not vanish, but it disciplined itself.
Kael felt the difference as they crossed deeper inside.
Not pain. Not force.
Just a subtle weight, like standing somewhere that expected more from your body than it was willing to give.
"You feel that?" the Tenth asked, glancing at him.
Kael shook his head, confused by the question.
The Tenth paused, then chuckled softly. "Ah… I forgot. Master said it wouldn't affect you."
He leaned back. "There's a subtle pressure here. Too many cultivators in one place, most of them unable to properly control their strength. Very weak."
His tone was dismissive.
"But extremely arrogant," he continued. "All frogs in a well."
He fell silent for a moment, then added quietly, "Master always said there's always someone stronger than you think. Always another mountain beyond the one you see. It never ends."
His voice trailed off.
They rode in silence after that.
Kael watched the scenery pass, streets opening wider than any he had walked before. He was used to weaving through alleys, slipping through places where no one bothered to look too closely.
Here, everything felt exposed.
Like a moving picture.
"A movie…" he murmured under his breath.
The thought unsettled him.
It brought memories he did not recognize.
The carriage slowed at a controlled gate.
A guard stepped forward, his gaze sliding over the driver. He nodded respectfully to Elder Song, then to the carriage, before his eyes stopped on the Tenth Senior Brother's face.
Recognition flickered.
His posture shifted—not dramatically, but enough to matter.
"Senior," the guard said.
The Tenth waved a hand. "Open it."
The gate opened at once.
The guard's eyes flicked to Kael.
Dismissive. Immediate.
Beggar. Slum child. Nothing worth noting.
Then his gaze lingered a fraction longer.
Riding in the same carriage as that man.
A servant? A slave?
The carriage passed through.
That was enough.
The shop stood among a row of cloth sellers, its frontage cleaner than most but not ostentatious. The wood was well-kept. The windows were clear. Old dye stains lingered near the threshold, not fully scrubbed away.
It looked busy.
It looked normal.
Inside, the air smelled of fresh fabric and faint dye. Bolts of cloth lined the walls. A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled automatically at the Tenth Senior Brother.
Her smile faltered when her gaze fell on Kael.
Not in disgust.
In calculation.
A thin child in worn clothing standing beside someone like this was not a beggar.
He was property.
"What does the young master need?" she asked.
"Clothes for him," the Tenth said. "Everything."
She did not ask questions.
Measurements were taken. Simple tunics. Trousers. Undergarments. Rough outer coats. Shoes that fit. Durable cloth wraps. The woman moved efficiently, professionally, as though this were routine.
The Tenth inspected each item with exaggerated seriousness.
"This is ugly," he declared, holding up a plain tunic.
"It will last," the woman replied politely.
"It is ugly and durable," he corrected. "Acceptable."
He tossed it onto the pile.
Kael stood still as hands adjusted fabric around him. He did not resist. He did not relax.
The new clothes felt strange.
Uncomfortable.
Yet as the sensation lingered, flashes of memory surfaced—people in strange garments, tight trousers, stiff fabrics that clung far worse than these ever could.
Skinny jeans…
He frowned, confused by the thought.
"Add more," the Tenth said.
"How many?" the woman asked.
"A hundred sets."
She paused.
"A hundred?" she repeated carefully.
"Training eats cloth," the Tenth replied. "If he only ruins fifty, he's being lazy."
Kael's fingers twitched once at his side.
A hundred.
The woman nodded and began writing. No surprise showed on her face, only the mild tightening of someone recalculating effort and delivery.
Another customer entered while she worked—an older man in clean robes, an attendant at his side. The man glanced at the Tenth Senior Brother, then at Kael.
He paused half a breath too long.
"Is that—" he began.
The Tenth turned his head.
"Yes," he said calmly. "And?"
The air shifted.
The woman behind the counter stopped moving. The attendant's hand stilled beneath his sleeve.
The older man laughed lightly. "No offense. I thought I recognized him."
"You didn't," the Tenth said.
The words were not rude.
They were final.
The man hesitated, then stepped back. "Of course."
As he left, his eyes flicked once more toward Kael—not hostile, but marking. Remembering.
That was how danger began in places like this.
Not with hatred.
With curiosity.
The Tenth exhaled softly once the man was gone. "Inner city people," he muttered. "Always sniffing for profit."
Kael swallowed. "Did I do something wrong?"
The Tenth blinked, then shook his head. "You existed. That's enough for some of them."
He paused, then added more quietly, "Existence isn't a crime. It's just expensive when you're alone."
He tapped Kael lightly on the forehead.
"But don't worry, Junior Brother. In this region… I am the strongest."
"You're not alone."
They left the shop with bundled clothing and arrangements made for delivery over the next few days. Kael wore one new set—the first clean clothes he had owned in years. The fabric felt strange against his skin. The shoes did not pinch.
That unsettled him more than comfort should have.
By the time they returned to the forge compound, dusk had settled. Heat still lingered in the stone. Kael folded the garments carefully beside his mat, aligning each piece as though it were fragile.
The Tenth stood in the doorway, arms folded, satisfied.
"Tomorrow," he said, "the real routine starts. Today was just fixing the obvious."
He turned. "Come. Master is waiting. Introductions start now."
Kael looked at the clothes.
A hundred sets meant expectation.
It meant destruction.
It meant pain measured in repetition.
Fragments of unfamiliar memories surfaced again—stories of protagonists beginning their training arcs, enduring suffering beyond reason.
He did not want to be a protagonist.
He just wanted to go home.
Back to his father's warm smile.
Back to his mother's embrace.
He was still only eight years old damit!