Qi Ying’s broken gasps tore the hush apart. He hunched over, blood splattering the dirt between his knees. Every tremor in his shoulders spat more crimson. Each breath sounded like torn parchment.
Jia didn’t spare him a glance of pity. She stepped behind him, her small hands swift and brutal as she patted him down. Qi Ying snarled at her touch—until her knuckles slammed into his gut with the force of a hammer. Another mouthful of blood hit the ground. The villagers flinched as one.
From an inside pocket, Jia plucked a green-blue Space-Pouch, fine silk embroidered with tight silver runes that glowed faintly in the firelight. She tugged at another inner fold—two rolls of cured leather. Then her sharp eyes caught the dark glint of protective threads under Qi Ying’s robe. In a single tug she stripped him of his yellow robe and the black vest beneath.
Humiliation clung to him like the dirt he kneeled on. The village watched. Old men. Wives. Children peeking between elbows. They’d remember this sight: the proud cultivator brought low by a child and his blade-tongued maid.
Jia didn’t hurry. She loosened the Space-Pouch, stuffed the leather, robe, vest inside—like packing away a carcass for the wolves to gnaw later.
Qi Ying’s head lifted, face a mask of blood and spit and hate. "Y-you… you’ll regret this…" His voice scraped raw. "You think… you think you’re safe? The Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain—"
Daemon stepped forward. Even now—nine years old, barely taller than a grown man’s waist—he seemed to fill the clearing with his shadow. "Why do you think I left you alive, Qi Ying?"
The kneeling man flinched as if struck.
Daemon’s smile was cold candlelight. "You just announced to all these good people that you belong to Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain. Everyone heard you. That means when word spreads—and it will—you’ll have humiliated them. Tarnished them. So when you crawl back whining for help… what do you think your masters will do?"
A murmur swept through the crowd. Even the boldest gossipers now swallowed their words. The name of a great Sect weighed heavy on every tongue.
"They’ll break you," Daemon went on, voice soft, silk over steel. "They’ll make an example of you. Maybe they’ll cripple you. Maybe worse. And then they’ll come for me anyway—because that’s how the game’s played."
He leaned closer, small face level with Qi Ying’s ruined stare. "But your head’s on the block first."
Qi Ying’s jaw worked but no sound came. He saw it too—his future, already stained red.
Daemon turned away without another glance, flicking a hand. Jia stepped back, boots crunching on the scorched dirt. The flames marking the circle flickered in the noon breeze, but not a single villager dared cross them.
Behind the boy, the members of the Qi Clan clustered, faces tight with anger and shame. Their Patriarch, Qi Yuan, watched the broken man in the ring and felt the invisible chains snapping shut around his clan. A simple brawl had become a noose—one tug from the Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain and his family might hang beside Qi Ying.
"Bring him," Qi Yuan ordered curtly. Strong arms hauled the defeated man up, dragging him away like so much refuse.
But no one missed the way Qi Yuan’s eyes flicked to Daemon—cold, calculating, but also… afraid.
The crowd melted away, nervous laughter and chattering whispers scattering like leaves. By the time Daemon stepped back into Qiu’s stall, the marketplace was hushed again—only wary eyes peeking between curtains and awnings.
Qiu practically leapt to pour tea, hands trembling with relief. "Drink, please, drink. And… here." She ducked behind a cloth curtain and returned with a small wooden box. Her cheeks were pink with excitement. "Try these."
Daemon accepted the box like a prince accepting tribute. "A gift? I hope you know I’m already spoken for." He shot Jia a sly grin, ignoring Qiu’s exasperated sigh.
He cracked the box open—inside, a pair of black leather shoes, sturdy yet sleek, with tiny grooves cut into the soles. Next to them, soft, fine socks.
"Try them!" Qiu urged. "I worked with the cobbler all night—compressed padding, fur lining, grooves for grip. They’re just a test, but… tell me."
Daemon slipped them on—smooth, warm, hugging his small feet. He bounced once, twice, testing balance and comfort. "Good. But not perfect." His grin turned wolfish. "Segment the sole—five parts. Hide stronger threads inside the layers. Add tiny holes above the toes—let the feet breathe."
Qiu’s mind raced, every word an ember for her ambition. Jia simply smiled, watching her young master spin gold out of nothing.
Daemon sipped his tea, eyes dancing. "Don’t stop at leather and fur. Try fabric, colors, glitter. Women’s shoes—heights, sparkles, dreams on feet. They’ll buy them to walk proud—and sometimes just to dream."
Qiu laughed, half-dazed, half-determined. She saw it then: shelves lined with bright, delicate shoes. A market stall turned into an empire. All from a boy with dust on his boots and thunder in his hands.
"I can’t wait," Daemon said softly, finishing his tea. "Grow big. Surprise me. I’m rooting for you, my sweet protégé."
And for a heartbeat, the bloody clearing and broken men felt far away—replaced by a simple dream of shoes and silk and a future spun out of leather and fire.
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