The scent of damp asphalt and frying plantains usually calmed Kenji. Not today. A low rumble of thunder mimicked the tremor in his hands, making his charcoal dance erratically on the canvas. Rain slicked the cobblestones of the Serpent's Coil Market, reflecting the neon glow of storefronts and the lurid reds of the spice stalls. His sketch, a chaotic splash of street life, felt like a desperate attempt to impose order on a mind buzzing with static. “Well, well. Look what we have here,” a voice rasped, thick as old oil. Kenji flinched, charcoal snapping. Three men, bulky silhouettes against the pulsating city lights, closed in. Their cheap raincoats did little to hide the angular bulk of concealed weapons. Each wore a small, stylized crimson fang pin on their lapel – the mark of the Crimson Fang Syndicate. Kenji’s throat tightened. His mind, usually a whirl of color and line, went blank, a white canvas under a hostile sun. He gripped his sketchbook like a shield. “Can… can I help you?” The words felt like sandpaper, barely audible above the alley's din. “The package, Lim. Where is it?” The speaker, a man with a face like cracked pottery, took another step. His two companions fanned out, cutting off Kenji’s escape route between a steaming noodle cart and a pile of overflowing durian husks. Package? Kenji’s brow furrowed. He sold street art, not contraband. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice cracked, betraying the tremor that had now reached his knees. This was it. The freeze. The moment his brain locked up, convincing him that standing still was safer than running, even as panic screamed for motion. “Don’t play dumb, boy. Your ‘old man’ sent it. We know you’re the last connection.” The pottery-faced man snarled, reaching a hand out. Kenji recoiled, tripping over a discarded fruit crate. He landed hard, sketchbook flying, its pages scattering across the wet ground like startled pigeons. A sharp, metallic clang cut through the vendors' chatter. It wasn’t the pottery-faced man’s fist connecting with Kenji. Instead, the man staggered back, a gurgling sound escaping his lips as he clutched his neck. A slender, silver blade, almost invisible in the gloom, had appeared from nowhere, sinking deep before vanishing as swiftly as it came. The other two thugs froze, their eyes darting wildly. A figure emerged from the shadows beneath a vendor’s awning, moving with the liquid grace of water. She was tall, dressed in dark, form-fitting attire, her face half-obscured by the low brim of a wide-brimmed hat. Raindrops clung to her dark hair like scattered pearls. Her movements were economical, terrifying. Before the two remaining thugs could even draw their own weapons, she was upon them. A blur of motion, a guttural choke, a swift, brutal strike to the temple. Another crumpled. The last one managed a desperate, wild swing with a hidden knife. She parried it with an open palm, the sound like stone meeting stone, then delivered a precise, crushing blow to his sternum. He dropped without a sound, a silent, crimson stain blooming on his coat. Kenji scrambled back, pressing himself against a damp wooden cart, his breath catching in ragged gasps. He’d never seen violence like this, so cold, so efficient. It was less a fight and more a systematic dismantling. The woman turned, her gaze, sharp and assessing, finding him. Her eyes were the color of polished river stones. “Kenji Lim,” she stated, her voice low, even, devoid of any discernible emotion. “You are the last heir of Clan Kadek.” Kenji blinked, his brain struggling to process. Kadek? He barely knew his mother’s side of the family, let alone anything about a clan. “What? No, I’m… I’m just Kenji. I paint. I try not to annoy my landlord.” “Your great-uncle, Sulong Kadek, requires your immediate presence at the Sky-Jade Pavilion.” She offered no explanation, no comfort, just a statement of fact that felt like a decree. She extended a hand, not to help him up, but to gesture towards the sleek, silent black vehicle that had materialized at the edge of the square. The ride was a blur. Taring Bay’s vibrant chaos slowly receded, replaced by winding, tree-lined roads that ascended into a mist-shrouded mountain range. The air grew cooler, thinner, until a colossal gate of gleaming, dark wood loomed, intricately carved with mythical beasts. Beyond it lay the Sky-Jade Pavilion, less a building and more a small city carved into the mountainside. Opulent pagodas with upswept roofs, whispering bamboo groves, and meticulously manicured gardens stretched into the distance. It was the kind of place that made Kenji’s threadbare jeans and paint-splattered shirt feel like an insult. He was led through grand halls, past silent, watchful figures in finely tailored silken robes. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and old money. Every surface gleamed, every pathway felt precisely placed. It was a suffocating perfection, a gilded cage designed to impress and intimidate. Finally, they reached a serene, expansive chamber where a single figure sat cross-legged on a raised dais. Sulong Kadek. He was an old man, his face a roadmap of fine wrinkles, but his posture was ramrod straight. A long, silver braid fell over his shoulder, and his eyes, though ancient, held a startling keenness. He looked up as Kenji entered, a warm, expansive smile spreading across his face. “Kenji, my boy! You’ve finally returned home.” His voice was a gentle rumble, a stark contrast to the brutal efficiency Kenji had witnessed just hours ago. Sulong pushed himself to his feet with an ease that belied his age, crossing the room to embrace Kenji. The hug was unexpectedly firm, almost crushing. “Great-uncle Sulong?” Kenji mumbled, still disoriented. He remembered a vague, distant relative from childhood, a man who always brought strange, ornate gifts and spoke in riddles. Sulong held him at arm’s length, his smile unwavering. “Indeed. And now, you are the master of this clan. The last true Kadek.” He then took Kenji’s hand, placing a cool, heavy object into his palm. It was a jade seal, intricately carved with the image of a coiled serpent, its scales shimmering with an inner green light. The jade felt incredibly smooth, ancient, and undeniably potent. As Kenji’s fingers closed around the seal, a sudden, draining cold spread from his hand, crawling up his arm. It wasn’t the chill of the jade itself, but something deeper, more insidious, like a vital warmth being siphoned away. His stomach churned. He felt lightheaded, his vision briefly blurring at the edges. It was a sensation not unlike the panic that often seized him, but without the adrenaline rush, only a hollow emptiness. Sulong’s smile softened, though his eyes remained unreadable. “Do not worry, my boy. You will grow accustomed to your new life… or you will be crushed by it.”

The Wrong Kind of Crimson