“I need a sword.” The guard squinted. The figure emerging from the cooled magma was a phantom, not the charred husk he expected. The air, once thick with the stench of sulfur, now carried a faint, unsettling scent of ozone and something ancient, like disturbed grave dust. Zha Weng’s reedy voice lost its bravado. “You… you’re supposed to be ash.” Teng Kui took another step, his crippled leg moving with an unnatural grace. The crimson flares in his eyes pulsed, not with heat, but with a frigid, predatory light. He lifted a hand, not to strike, but to examine a loose piece of obsidian that had flaked from the cooling forge floor. It was no bigger than a thumbnail. Zha Weng, still reeling, tightened his grip on his Heaven-Bound blade, its edge designed to sever spiritual threads and extinguish cultivators. He lunged, a desperate, clumsy thrust aimed at what he assumed was a wounded, disoriented man. Teng Kui did not move. He simply flicked his wrist. The obsidian shard, propelled by an invisible force, shot forward with the shriek of a miniature gale. It struck Zha Weng’s gleaming blade, not on the flat, but precisely on the razor edge, near the hilt. A high-pitched *ping* echoed in the silent chasm, followed by a sickening *crack*. The Heaven-Bound blade, a symbol of Zha Weng’s meager authority, shattered into three distinct pieces, two of them embedding themselves into the rock wall behind him. The largest shard, a foot of useless steel, tumbled to the ground with a clatter. Zha Weng stared at his empty hand, then at the broken fragments, his jaw hanging loose. His eyes, wide with sudden, animalistic terror, finally focused on Teng Kui. The former prodigy hadn’t even bothered to summon spiritual energy. It was pure, raw force, guided by a precision no human should possess. “The blade is broken,” Teng Kui stated, his voice a low, gravelly hum, devoid of emotion. He closed the distance between them in a single, fluid motion. Zha Weng stumbled back, tripping over his own feet, his panic seizing his lungs. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped. Teng Kui’s hand, calloused and scarred from years in the Crucible, closed around Zha Weng’s throat. There was no struggle. No thrashing. Only a quiet, wet crunch as Teng Kui’s fingers tightened, crushing bone and windpipe alike. The guard’s eyes glazed over, his body slumping to the ground like a discarded puppet. Teng Kui released his grip, stepping over the corpse without a glance. He needed a sword, but not *that* sword. Not one wielded by such weakness. From a shadowed alcove carved into the abyssal wall, a figure in tattered robes froze. Hou San, a man whose skin was the color of old parchment and whose eyes darted like trapped insects, had been meticulously picking through the discarded gear of failed convicts for the past hour. He’d heard the scuffle, the single *ping*, the choked gurgle. He’d seen the silent, brutal efficiency. His ribcage rattled with frantic thuds, greed instantly replaced by survival instinct. He clutched a sack bulging with scavenged trinkets – a dull spirit stone, a chipped alchemical retort, a tarnished bronze token – and slowly, quietly, began to back away. Teng Kui did not turn. His head remained fixed on the twisting tunnel that led back to the surface. Yet, a whisper, colder than the abyssal gloom, slithered into Hou San’s ears. “Do not move, scavenger.” Hou San, despite himself, flinched. He’d thought himself undetectable, a wraith in the shadows. He froze, one foot poised in mid-air. He looked up, and Teng Kui’s crimson eyes were now fixed on him, twin points of light in the profound darkness. Hou San swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The terror was absolute. “Your sack,” Teng Kui’s voice was flat. “Empty it.” Hou San’s initial instinct was to flee, but his limbs refused to obey. This man, this demon, had moved without sound, without effort. He had shattered a Heaven-Bound blade with a pebble. Hou San fumbled with the drawstring of his sack, his hands trembling. He upended it, and a meager pile of tarnished goods spilled onto the cold stone floor. “It’s… it’s all I have,” he stammered, his voice a pathetic squeak. “Just a few… worthless baubles.” Teng Kui’s gaze swept over the paltry collection, pausing on a small, dull mineral pebble. It held a meager wisp of astral power, perhaps enough for a minor ward, but it was refined ore nonetheless. “Those,” he said, pointing to the gems. “And any others you hoard.” Hou San choked back a whimper. He possessed several more tucked in his lining, far richer in crystalline jade. His instincts screamed at him to deny, to lie, but the frigid silence emanating from Teng Kui was more potent than any threat. With a groan that sounded like a dying beast, he reached into hidden pockets, pulling out three polished rocks, each slightly larger, slightly brighter than the first. He laid them on the ground, pupils wide with desperate pleading. “Please, elder. This is truly everything. My life’s savings. For a poor man, this is… this is ruin.” Teng Kui collected the loot, dropping it into his palm. He looked at the pendant around his neck. “Jiao Zang,” he murmured under his breath. “Your payment.” The jade pendant pulsed with a faint, greedy green light. A voice, ancient and raspy, echoed directly into Teng Kui’s mind. *“Hmph. Paltry. But it will suffice for a taste. You seek to shed the aura of the Crucible’s Demon, to walk among them unseen, yes? The Heavenly Censors are like vultures, ever circling. For this… I shall grant you the ‘Shadow Veil’ art. It will bind your reformed essence, dampen the apocalyptic resonance of your core, and render you a mere wisp in their cosmic sight. But know this, boy, the price will escalate.”* Information flooded Teng Kui’s mind—a complex internal sequence that masked his presence to resemble a common cultivator. It would only hold if he refrained from unleashing his monstrous force, but for now, it was enough. He began to circulate the art immediately, his essence coiling inwards, the overwhelming sense of dread he’d carried since his awakening slowly receding. Hou San watched the pendant glow, his eyes like saucers. He couldn’t hear the dragon’s voice, but he understood the transaction. This crippled man was no mere survivor. He was something else entirely. An opportunity. “Master,” Hou San ventured, his voice still trembling but now laced with a hint of calculation. “You… you need to return to the Pavilion, yes? The upper levels. But the Abyss Gate is sealed. No one goes up.” Teng Kui looked at him, his crimson irises now muted, almost normal in the abyssal gloom, the shroud already taking hold. “Speak.” “There are other ways,” Hou San hurried on, emboldened by the lack of immediate threat. “Secret routes. Known only to a few. And… and I have an emblem. A dead man’s token. Young Lord Zhoran, the one cast into the Crucible three cycles ago. He never made it out. I recovered his outer sect badge. It is virtually unrecorded. I could get you through the lower checkpoints. To the outer ranks. For… for a small fee, of course.” Hou San glanced at the bare dirt where his minerals had rested. Teng Kui considered the offer. A guide. A way back in, unseen. He needed to avoid detection until he was strong enough, wealthy enough, to truly begin. Hou San, for all his cowardice, had knowledge and access. “Lead the way,” Teng Kui commanded, his voice firm. Hou San, a broad, nervous grin splitting his face, quickly gathered his remaining junk. “Right this way! We’ll be through the old Service Tunnels, past the forgotten sluice gates, and up into the Artisan’s District. No one checks there much, especially not at this hour.” They moved through the desolate underbelly of the Zenith Sword Pavilion, a labyrinth of crumbling tunnels and disused passages. Hou San scurried ahead, a flickering oil lamp casting dancing shadows, pointing out loose stones, hidden traps, and discarded detritus. Teng Kui followed, steps soundless, mind already formulating strategies. He watched Hou San, observed his twitchy movements, his constant glances over his shoulder. The man was a rat, but a useful one. Hours later, the air grew cooler, less stagnant. A faint glow ahead signaled their proximity to the surface. Hou San stopped at a heavy, iron-bound door, half-concealed by overgrown vines. “This is it. The Old Censor’s Checkpoint. Seldom manned now, but still watched. They usually just wave me through after a quick bribe.” He patted a pouch at his waist, which now contained the meager payment Teng Kui had given him. As Hou San pushed open the heavy door, a sneering figure emerged from the shadows beyond. It was a man with a brutish face and a heavy, spiked gauntlet, an outer sect enforcer. He wore the black and silver robes of the Zenith Sword Pavilion’s enforcement corps. His gaze immediately fell on Hou San, then flickered to Teng Kui, lingering for a moment before dismissing him as another one of Hou San’s downtrodden associates. The enforcer's lips curled into a nasty smile. “Well, well, if it isn’t Hou San, the Abyss Scavenger. What marvels have you dragged up this time? And who’s your mute companion? Looks like he’s missing an arm.” He eyed Teng Kui’s slightly hunched posture, mistaking his careful movement for weakness. “You know the toll, rat. For bringing your trash through my gate.” He extended his spiked gauntlet, not towards Hou San’s pouch, but directly at his right arm. “This time, I think I’ll take a limb. Consider it a late payment for all the times you’ve slipped past without proper tribute.” Hou San’s face drained of color. He looked from the sneering enforcer to Teng Kui, a silent plea in his eyes. Breaking cover now would alert the Censors, but without Hou San, Teng Kui was blind in this labyrinthine world. Teng Kui’s internal shroud hummed, struggling against the rising surge of his power. He had to choose.

The Scavenger's Debt