Three days passed like three heartbeats stretched thin.
Each morning Ma-ri woke with the same cautious hope in her eyes. Each evening she returned with a little more rice, a few more dried vegetables, once even a small fish head that Widow Kim had thrown in for free. The silver coins had been spent carefully, never all at once. The shack smelled less of despair and more of faint wood smoke and cooked grain.
Ah-yul played the part perfectly: wide-eyed child, helpful son, occasional clumsy helper. He swept, he carried water in cracked buckets, he even hummed tuneless little songs he remembered from his first childhood so she would smile.
But every afternoon, when Ma-ri napped or went to the river to wash clothes, he slipped out.
He watched. Listened. Remembered.
The west bridge information had been perfect. Old Gam had arrived early, outbid Iron Jaw by one silver, and flipped the stolen patrol schedules to a smuggler group for almost triple what he paid. He had been grinning when Ah-yul came to collect the next day — a rare, ugly expression on that scarred face.
Two more silver changed hands.
The old cripple had started looking at the boy differently after that. Not with suspicion exactly. More like a butcher sizing up a particularly promising calf.
On the fourth afternoon Ah-yul went back.
The beggar's market was thinner than usual — many had moved to the main square because a minor sect disciple was handing out free congee to gain merit. The remaining sellers looked hungrier, angrier.
Old Gam sat in his usual place, but something was wrong.
No grin today. No lazy flick of a coin. The crutch lay across his lap like a club. His good eye was bloodshot, the milky one seeming to stare straight through the boy.
Ah-yul stopped three paces away.
"You're late," Old Gam rasped.
"I came at the same hour as always."
The old man spat into the dirt.
"Hour don't matter when the deal turns to shit."
Ah-yul felt the first cold thread of danger slide down his spine.
"Explain."
Old Gam leaned forward, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"The blue-robed bastard never showed. No bamboo case. No schedules. Iron Jaw waited two hours, laughed in my face, then took his men and left. I stood there like a fool holding nine silver I didn't need to spend."
He lifted the crutch slightly — not yet threatening, but ready.
"I lost coin. I lost face. And I lost time I don't have."
Ah-yul kept his face blank.
"I gave you what I heard. Word for word. If the man didn't come, that's not my lie. That's his change of plan."
Old Gam's lip curled.
"Or maybe a six-year-old rat thought he could play me for a fool and walk away with silver he never earned."
Silence stretched between them.
The boy spoke slowly, clearly.
"I don't play fools. I play men who can pay. You paid. You profited the first two times. One miss doesn't erase that."
The old man barked a laugh — short, ugly.
"One miss costs more than two wins when you're me. Rent on this spot. Bribes to the gate guards. Food I could've eaten instead of waiting for a ghost."
He used the crutch to push himself upright, balancing on his one good leg.
The stump of the missing leg swung like a pendulum.
"I want my nine silver back. Plus interest. Call it fifteen."
Ah-yul didn't move.
"I don't have fifteen silver."
"Then I'll take it out of your hide. Or maybe I'll take it out of your mama's hide. She's still pretty enough that someone'll pay to keep her quiet after I'm done."
That was the moment the line was crossed.
Not the threat to him. The threat to her.
Something cold and final clicked inside the child's chest.
He looked up at the old cripple — really looked.
And the strategist who had once orchestrated the death of thousands saw only angles, distances, leverage points, improvised weapons.
"I'm not giving you anything," Ah-yul said quietly.
Old Gam smiled — yellow teeth, stained with tobacco and hate.
"Then we do this the hard way."
He moved faster than a one-legged man had any right to.
The crutch came whistling down like a staff.
Ah-yul was already moving — sideways, small body ducking under the swing. The heavy wood cracked against the side of the cart instead, splintering a plank.
Shouts rose from nearby stalls. People backed away. No one interfered. A cripple beating a beggar child was not worth dying over.
Old Gam pivoted on his good leg, swinging again.
This time Ah-yul didn't dodge.
He stepped in — close, too close for the long crutch to gain momentum.
He grabbed the old man's ragged coat with both small hands and yanked downward with all the strength his malnourished body possessed.
Old Gam stumbled forward.
His balance — already precarious — failed.
He fell hard onto his remaining knee, cursing.
Ah-yul didn't hesitate.
He snatched a broken piece of the splintered plank from the cart — about the length of his forearm, jagged at one end.
Old Gam roared and swung a fist.
The boy ducked.
The punch grazed his ear, tearing skin, drawing blood.
Pain flared bright and hot.
He welcomed it. Pain sharpened focus.
He drove the jagged wood upward — not at the face, not at the throat. At the armpit of the swinging arm.
The point sank in half a finger-length.
Old Gam howled.
Blood immediately soaked the filthy sleeve.
He tried to rise, using the crutch for support.
Ah-yul kicked the crutch away.
It skittered across the dirt.
Now the old man was down to one hand and one knee — a tripod missing a leg.
He lunged anyway, grabbing for the boy's throat with his good hand.
Ah-yul twisted, let the momentum carry him past, then stomped down on the back of Old Gam's remaining knee.
Cartilage popped.
The cripple screamed — high and animal.
He collapsed fully now, face in the dirt.
Ah-yul didn't stop.
He picked up the fallen crutch.
It was heavier than it looked — solid hardwood, iron ferrule on the bottom.
He lifted it high.
Old Gam rolled onto his back, one hand raised in instinctive defense.
"Wait— boy— wait—"
Ah-yul brought the crutch down.
The iron tip struck the old man's temple with a wet crunch.
The body jerked once.
Then stilled.
Blood pooled beneath the head, dark and spreading.
The market had gone silent.
Every eye was on the six-year-old standing over the corpse, breathing hard, small hands still gripping the murder weapon.
No one moved to stop him. No one screamed for guards.
In this part of the city, death was just another kind of business.
Ah-yul looked around once — slow, deliberate.
Then he dropped the crutch.
He stepped over the body.
He began to search.
Old Gam had carried more than most people realized.
Under the cart, hidden in a false bottom, Ah-yul found:
A small leather pouch: eleven silver coins, thirty-four copper A rusted but serviceable short dagger (blade less than a foot, perfect for a child's hand) Three low-grade healing salves wrapped in oil paper A small book — dog-eared, handwritten — titled Basic Outer Breathing Method of the Floating Cloud School A heavy iron ring with a crude key attached A folded piece of paper with names and amounts — debts, bribes, blackmail notes
He took everything.
Then he looked at the cart itself.
Old and battered, but sturdy enough. Two wheels. A single pull-bar.
He dragged the body behind the nearest stall — out of sight — and covered it with a rotting mat someone had abandoned.
It wouldn't stay hidden long, but long enough.
He returned to the cart.
He was small. The cart was heavy.
But fury and adrenaline are powerful levers.
He braced both hands on the pull-bar, planted his feet, and pulled.
The cart moved — grudgingly at first, then steadier.
He dragged it through alleys, avoiding the main paths. Twice he had to stop and hide when patrols passed. Once a drunk tried to grab the side of the cart; Ah-yul showed him the bloody dagger and the drunk decided he wasn't that thirsty after all.
By the time he reached the shack, his arms were trembling, his legs felt like fire, and sweat soaked his ragged clothes.
He left the cart behind the shack, against the wall where it couldn't be seen from the alley.
He wiped the dagger on his sleeve, tucked it into his waistband under the shirt, and hid the pouch and book inside his clothes.
Then he went inside.
Ma-ri was awake, stirring a thin soup over the tiny fire.
She looked up when he entered.
Her smile died the instant she saw him.
Blood on his ear. Blood on his sleeve. Dirt and sweat plastered across his face.
"Ah-yul—!"
She rushed to him.
He raised both hands — small, placating.
"I'm okay."
"You're bleeding!"
"Just a scratch. I fell. Ran into some older boys who wanted to take my coins. I fought back. They ran away."
Her eyes searched his face.
He held her gaze — calm, steady, practiced.
It was the same look he had used for years when lying to sect leaders, alliance elders, even Baek Wol-seong himself.
Ma-ri's shoulders sagged.
She pulled him close, hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe.
"You stupid, brave little fool," she whispered. "Don't ever do that again. Don't ever fight anyone. Just run. Run home to me."
He hugged her back.
"I will," he lied softly.
She didn't notice the lie.
She was too busy crying again — quiet, relieved tears this time.
Later, after she had cleaned his ear with boiled water and the last of their clean cloth, he waited until she went to fetch more water from the well.
Then he moved quickly.
He pulled the cart closer to the shack's back wall and began unloading the most valuable items into the hidden space beneath the loose floorboards.
The book he kept separate — he would study it tonight, after she slept.
The dagger he hid under the straw mat, within easy reach.
The coins he divided: some for immediate use, the rest buried.
The healing salves he would give her one at a time — "found them near the market."
The iron ring and key he studied carefully. The key looked like it fit something larger — perhaps a storage shed or a small warehouse used by petty smugglers.
That could wait.
When Ma-ri returned, he was sitting innocently on the mat, pretending to poke at the fire.
She carried a small basket this time — more rice, some wilted greens, a single egg.
She looked happier than he had seen her in years.
"Look what your silver bought today," she said proudly.
He smiled — small, real for once.
They ate together.
Afterward she sang him the old lullaby she used when he was still a baby — the one about the river that carries all sadness away.
He pretended to fall asleep against her side.
When her breathing finally deepened into true sleep, he opened his eyes.
He reached under the mat and pulled out the small book.
Basic Outer Breathing Method of the Floating Cloud School
He opened it to the first page.
The characters were simple — written for outer disciples, not inner sect geniuses.
Good.
He began to read by the faint red glow of the dying coals.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent life.
Somewhere in the beggar's market, a body would be found soon.
Someone would shrug. Another beggar dead. Nothing new.
But inside the shack, a six-year-old boy took his first true step toward becoming something else entirely.
Not just a survivor.
Not just a schemer.
Something colder. Something sharper. Something inevitable.
He turned the page.
And began to breathe — slow, deliberate, following the ancient pattern.
The qi in the air — thin, polluted, barely worth gathering — answered.
Just a trickle.
But a trickle was enough.
For now.