Ash tasted like copper and burnt flesh on Deso's tongue. Dragging his broken body forward, he left a dark, smeary trail across the ruined courtyard of his family home. Soot covered everything, burying the memories of his childhood under a thick, suffocating layer of grey filth. Cold wind howled through the charred skeletal remains of the estate, carrying the bitter scent of ozone and decayed spiritual energy. Pain flared in his left hand, a sharp, white-hot reminder of the oath he had just taken. Mangled, bloody stumps where his fingers used to be scraped against the jagged cobblestones. He welcomed the agony. Physical pain was the only anchor keeping him from spinning into complete madness. Hovering just beside his temple, a small, crystalline insect flickered with a faint blue light. Logic Thread Chu, a rank-one Wisdom Path treasure, buzzed softly in response to his heightened state of distress. Deso had nurtured this Chu in his dantian for three years, but he had never used it under such horrific circumstances. Bringing it out required a steady stream of primeval essence, which he forced from his depleted, trembling dantian. Blue light filtered into his vision, overlaying the scorched courtyard with sharp, geometric grids. Instantly, his mind cleared of the emotional fog, leaving behind a cold, calculating machine. Lines of glowing blue energy traced the ground, highlighting the disturbances in the thick layer of ash. At the entrance gate, the giant iron doors lay melted into a pool of black slag. Uncle Boris, the head gatekeeper, had been standing guard right there. His giant broadsword was shattered into three pieces, scattered across the stone steps. No struggle marks existed around his final position, indicating he had been struck down instantly, without warning. Logic Thread Chu calculated the pressure on the brass levers of the gate. Brass levers showed no signs of impact or forced entry from the outside. It had been turned smoothly from the inside, by a hand possessing at least rank-four strength. Only three people in the entire Fortunados clan possessed rank-four strength. His father, Julian, was one of them. But Deso's analytical mind, clouded by grief, assumed his father had been forced. He calculated the footprints next to the gate. Two sets of boots walked side-by-side, leaving deep, distinct impressions in the fresh ash. One set belonged to his father. Other sets belonged to a high-ranking elder of the Fate-Weaving Sect. Spacing of their strides was identical, matching each other step-for-step. In a forced march, a captive's strides are irregular, showing dragging heels and uneven pressure. These prints showed a steady, calm, almost leisurely pace. Yet, Deso's mind refused to accept the logical conclusion. He forced the Logic Thread Chu to run the calculations again, hoping for a computational error. No error occurred. Truth sat there, cold and mathematical, staring back at him in glowing blue lines. Still, he blamed himself. Guilt was a shield, protecting him from an even more devastating reality. Crawling further into the training grounds, Deso examined the footprints of his younger siblings. Every step was recorded in the ash, a silent record of their final moments. Forty distinct sets of footprints materialized in his mental map, highlighted by the glowing threads of the Chu. Crescent-shaped soles marked the soot, their edges sharp and precise. Each stride was slow, deliberate, and perfectly spaced. These were the signature boots of the Fate-Weaving Sect's executioners, the dreaded Weft-Cutters. Blood splatters painted the scorched walls, but they did not match the chaotic trajectory of a frantic battle. Using his Logic Thread Chu, Deso calculated the angles of the spray. Here, his younger cousin Lira's blood had painted the wooden pillar in a violent, fan-like pattern. Beside her blood, a pair of crescent-sole footprints remained stationary. No killer stands completely still during a mortal struggle. They had stood there for twelve minutes, shifting their weight only slightly. Twelve minutes of standing in front of a bleeding child. Horror, cold and heavy, pierced through the logical barrier of his Wisdom Path Chu. These monsters did not just kill his family. Despair was their harvest, a dark energy they cultivated to feed their own twisted Chu. They had systematically tortured every man, woman, and child, forcing them to watch their loved ones die. Squeezing his mangled hand, Deso pressed the raw stumps directly into a glowing ember from a fallen roof beam. Searing heat hissed against his torn flesh, sending a wave of fresh agony to his brain. Guilt choked him, a physical weight pressing down on his chest. If he had only killed that scout instead of showing mercy, none of this would have happened. He was the monster who had brought this ruin upon his own blood. --- A wet, bubbling gasp broke the heavy silence of the courtyard. Deso froze, his breath catching in his throat. Scrambling through the grey ruins, he dragged his useless legs over piles of shattered tiles. Beneath the collapsed timber of the ancestral hall, a hand twitched. Elder Morian lay pinned under a massive stone pillar, his face pale and smeared with soot. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, thick and dark, pooling in the dust. Reaching out with his one good hand, Deso tried to lift the heavy stone. Morian's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, before locking onto Deso's face. Instead of relief, a sudden, violent spark of hatred flared in the dying man's eyes. Lifting a trembling hand, the elder gripped Deso's collar with surprising, desperate strength. Deso sobbed, pressing his forehead against the cold stone. "I am sorry, Elder," Deso whispered, tears cutting clean tracks through the ash on his cheeks. "I let them find us. I spared the scout. It is all my fault." Coughing up a thick glob of blood, Morian let out a raspy, mocking laugh. Deso shook his head, confused by the sheer venom radiating from the dying elder. "You think your pathetic mistake caused this?" Morian hissed, his voice scraping like dry autumn leaves. Leaning closer, Deso strained to hear the fading words. With his final, rattling breath, the dying elder gasps out with his final breath that Deso's father was not murdered, but willingly offered up his own children to buy his own ascension.

Chapter 2: A Bitter Harvest of Tears