The first time Yuan He got hit, it happened in an alley with teeth and laughter.
This time, it happened in a place designed to have no name.
He left the Merit Hall after sundown posting with his sleeves warm from receipt marks and his stomach tight with the stupid kind of hope that came from seeing his own name on a board. Two points. Proof. A tiny lever.
He told himself he was walking back to the dorms like anyone else.
He told himself that was the point.
He made it three turns before he noticed the absence.
Not silence. The sect never gave you silence.
Just…space.
A stretch of wall where the lanterns didn't reach well. A narrow service path behind the drying racks where the ground was packed hard and the air smelled like old herbs. A place where you could be seen from far away, but not clearly enough to swear to faces.
A blind spot.
He stopped.
Not because fear froze him. Because his brain did the same thing it always did when a system changed behavior.
It checked assumptions.
No footsteps behind him.
That didn't mean he was alone.
He turned his head slightly and saw a figure leaning against the far corner of the wall, like he'd been there the whole time.
Sun Ba's silhouette without Sun Ba's voice.
A proxy.
The man pushed off the wall and walked toward him with lazy steps, hands loose, expression bored. Another shape detached from the darker side of the racks and drifted into the path behind Yuan He, cutting off the clean exit.
Yuan He recognized them.
Not by names.
By the memory of pressure. The way one of them had shoved him into the alley wall while Sun Ba hit him.
The one in front smiled like he was doing a chore.
"Yuan He," he said.
Yuan He inclined his head, polite. "Senior Brother."
The smile sharpened at the honorific, like it was a joke.
"You've been busy," the man said. His eyes flicked to Yuan He's sleeve. "Receipt marks."
Yuan He kept his face blank. "I've been working."
"Working," the man echoed. Then he sighed theatrically, like Yuan He was exhausting. "You keep making it annoying."
Yuan He didn't answer.
He could feel the shape of the conversation tightening. Not negotiation. Pretext.
He looked past the man, toward the dorm yard. Lantern glow. Movement. Voices.
Public.
If he could reach that light, they wouldn't do much. Not because they were good people, but because witnesses were expensive.
So he stepped sideways, careful, trying to angle his body toward the yard.
The man mirrored him without hurrying.
"Where are you going?" the man asked, still smiling.
"Back," Yuan He said.
The second man behind him made a small sound, almost a laugh.
The one in front took another step.
Close enough now that Yuan He could smell him. Sweat. Cheap wine. A faint metallic tang that might have been a blade's sheath oil, or might have just been the kind of breath you got from eating too many salty rations and not enough water.
"You know," the man said conversationally, "Sun Ba is very patient."
Yuan He kept his voice calm. "Tell him I'm not fighting him."
The man blinked, then laughed. "You think this is about fighting?"
Yuan He didn't move.
Inside, his mind started to count.
Four in.
One hold.
Six out.
He didn't chase the bead. He didn't form seals. He just used the cadence as a rail, because rails were what kept you from grabbing the wrong lever in panic.
The man's smile faded. "You keep saying no."
Yuan He's ribs ached as if they remembered. He kept his gaze steady anyway.
"I'm allowed to say no," Yuan He said.
The man's eyes narrowed. "Allowed."
The word carried the whole problem inside it.
Allowed by whom?
The sect didn't allow anything until somebody important cared.
The man in front reached out suddenly, fast.
Not for Yuan He's throat.
For his sleeve.
For the chits.
For the proof.
His fingers caught cloth.
Yuan He reacted without thinking and slapped the hand away.
It wasn't a strike. It wasn't righteous. It was reflex and possession.
The man's eyes flashed.
"Ah," he said softly, and the boredom drained out of his face. "There it is."
The punch came next.
Not a dramatic haymaker. A short, practiced shot into Yuan He's side where bruises lived. Pain flared hot and close. Yuan He's breath hitched.
His cadence broke.
The second man stepped in from behind and grabbed Yuan He's shoulder, turning him into the wall like it was a favor. The world tilted just enough that the dorm lanterns vanished from the corner of his eye.
Blind spot.
Yuan He tasted blood, thin and copper.
He kept his hands down.
He didn't swing.
Because swinging was an invitation to make this a "fight," and a fight was something they could label as mutual.
He wasn't here to be mutual.
The man in front hit him again, lower this time, and Yuan He's vision went white at the edges.
Yuan He swallowed air through his teeth, forced the rail back into place.
Four.
One.
Six.
He didn't get the full counts. Pain cut them. But the act of counting did something important.
It put him back inside his own head.
"Stop," Yuan He said, voice rough.
The man smiled. "Stop what?"
"Stop taking my sleeves," Yuan He said, because he couldn't afford to say what he actually wanted to say.
Stop treating me like a toy.
Stop acting like the world has no rules.
Stop making me want to do something stupid.
The second man tightened his grip and shoved him harder into the wall, just to remind him that words were free.
The man in front leaned close.
"You think those stamps make you safe?" he whispered. "You think a clerk's brush can stop a fist?"
Yuan He did not answer.
Because the answer was obvious now.
No.
Paper didn't stop fists.
Paper only changed the price of using them.
And right now, the price was still cheap.
The man's hand darted again, faster, and this time he tore the chits out of Yuan He's sleeve.
Yuan He's chest tightened.
Not panic.
Something colder.
They weren't stealing food. They weren't stealing coins.
They were trying to erase the only part of the system that had ever acknowledged he existed.
He reached for the chits.
The second man yanked his arm back and twisted. Pain shot up to Yuan He's shoulder.
"Don't," the man behind him muttered, amused. "It'll get worse."
Yuan He froze.
Not because he believed in mercy.
Because he believed in constraints.
If he fought here, he would lose and be blamed.
If he didn't, he would lose and be ignored.
There was no good outcome inside this blind spot.
Only data.
The man in front flipped the chits in his fingers like playing cards, checking stamps with exaggerated care. He clucked his tongue.
"Two points," he said. "So proud."
He tore one chit in half.
Not quickly. Slowly. Like he wanted Yuan He to watch every fiber separate.
Then he tore the other.
Paper didn't stop fists.
Paper didn't even survive them.
He tossed the pieces onto the dirt.
Yuan He stared at the scraps.
A stupid part of him wanted to lunge, to grab them, to tape them back together with willpower.
A sane part of him whispered, flat and calm: the receipt marks are still on the back. The clerk wrote received. The ledger posting exists.
Maybe.
He couldn't be sure. Not until tomorrow. Not until he tested.
The man in front stepped back, satisfied.
"That's it," he said, like he'd completed a task. "Next time, you yield."
Yuan He lifted his gaze. "I didn't do anything."
The man laughed. "Exactly."
Then he hit Yuan He one last time, a casual slap across the mouth, and Yuan He's head snapped sideways. The world rang.
The two men walked away without hurrying, disappearing into angles where their faces would become "maybe" and "could be" and "who knows."
Yuan He slid down the wall until he was crouched, one hand braced against the ground.
His jaw ached. His ribs screamed. His sleeve hung loose where cloth had torn.
He breathed.
Not for power.
For function.
Four in.
One.
Six out.
He waited for the shaking to stop.
He waited until he could stand without wobbling.
He waited until he could honestly say: I am not getting worse.
Then he picked up one scrap of paper and looked at it.
A stamp mark, half missing.
Ink smeared where a clerk's brush had once said received.
Even torn, it was still evidence.
He laughed, a quiet sound that had no joy in it.
"Okay," he muttered, too low for anyone else. "Second lesson."
He stood and walked toward the dorm lights with his face blank and his hands steady.
He passed two outer disciples near the path entrance, both pretending very hard to look at something else.
One of them met his eyes for a fraction of a second, then looked away so quickly it was almost painful.
Yuan He understood without needing words.
They had seen.
They would not be a witness.
He kept walking.
Inside his sleeve, the ghost of receipt marks pressed against his skin.
Inside his chest, a new conclusion settled heavier than any bead.
If force was the language here, then he couldn't keep trying to argue with paper in a blind spot.
He needed a place where violence became visible.
A place where the sect was forced to look.
A place with an assigned witness.
A place with rules that were real.
He went back into the dorm with his head up, because his parents were dead and the lesson was still alive, and he didn't let anyone see the moment his mouth tightened into something that was not fear.
It was decision.