Ash coated Deso’s tongue like bitter metal. Step by step, his boots sank into the soot-covered courtyard of his family estate. Every breath felt like swallowing crushed glass, the heat of the dying fires still radiating from the collapsed timber. Behind him, the corpse of Elder Morian lay cooling in the dirt. Before him, the ruined ancestral hall of the Fortunados clan stood like a blackened ribcage against the gray, mocking sky. Deep within his dantian, his Logic Thread Chu hummed. It was a thin, silver strand of light, currently floating in his spiritual sea. When he willed it, the Chu drifted out of his abdomen, hovering near his ear like a glowing silkworm. Its icy energy filtered into his brain, dampening the hysterical scream clawing its way up his throat. --- A low, wet rattle echoed from beneath a collapsed support beam near the main entrance. Deso hurried toward the sound, his hands clawing at the charred timber. The rough wood bit into his palms, leaving bloody smears, but he felt nothing. Beneath the heavy wood lay Vane Fortunados, his father's younger brother. Vane’s legs were entirely flattened, crushed into a bloody paste beneath the stone foundation of the hall. "Deso..." Vane gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his cracked lips. "Uncle," Deso said, his voice disturbingly flat. The Logic Thread Chu pulsed, analyzing Vane's vital signs. Heart rate: erratic. Internal bleeding: terminal. Time remaining: less than ten minutes. "You're alive," Vane whispered, a weak, tragic smile touching his soot-stained face. "Thank the heavens. You must run, boy. You must run far from here." "Why should I run?" Deso asked, his voice devoid of warmth. "They... they wanted us dead. The Fate-Weaving Sect. They engineered this. Your father... he tried to resist. They slaughtered everyone to teach the outer territories a lesson." Vane coughed violently, spitting a glob of dark blood onto Deso's tunic. "Go to the southern border," Vane urged, grabbing Deso's wrist with trembling, sticky fingers. "There is a pouch of silver buried beneath the old well. Take it. Change your name. Live a simple life. Forget the martial path. Forget the Fortunados name. Let us die, but let yourself live." Deso stared at his uncle’s hand. The warmth of the blood felt disgusting. It felt like a physical weight, dragging him down into the dirt of his own cowardice. "Live?" Deso whispered, his voice dripping with self-loathing. "I survived because I hid," Deso said, his fingers tightening until Vane’s bones creaked. "I survived because I was too weak to be targeted first. You want me to run? To pretend none of this happened?" "It is the only way to survive!" Vane pleaded, tears cutting clean lines through the soot on his cheeks. "Revenge is a trap. You cannot fight them. They weave the very fates of the empires!" "Then I will tear the loom apart," Deso replied. Cold logic dictated that Vane was right. The Fate-Weaving Sect was a colossus. Deso was an ant. But the Logic Thread Chu also calculated another truth: if he ran, his guilt would rot him from the inside out until he took his own life. --- Deso turned his gaze toward the dying embers of the hearth nearby. Among the glowing coals lay a heavy iron rod. It was the family branding iron, used to mark their prized horses with the crest of the Fortunados—a rising falcon. Now, the falcon’s wings were twisted, melted by the extreme heat into a jagged, broken shape. Reaching into the embers, Deso grasped the wooden handle. The wood was hot enough to blister his palm instantly, but he did not flinch. He pulled the iron free. The metal end glowed with a vicious, cherry-red light. "Deso, what are you doing?" Vane’s voice rose in panic. "I am discarding the boy who survived," Deso said. He ripped open his tunic, exposing his bare chest. The skin over his heart was pale, trembling slightly in the biting wind. With a steady hand, he brought the red-hot iron toward his flesh. "Stop!" Vane screamed, trying to crawl forward, but his crushed legs kept him pinned. "Deso, no!" Deso did not hesitate. He pressed the glowing iron directly onto his chest. Sizzle. A thick, white cloud of putrid smoke rose, carrying the smell of burning flesh. Agony exploded through his nervous system like a lightning strike. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to pull the iron away. His teeth ground together so hard that a molar cracked, sending a metallic taste of blood into his mouth. Still, his hand remained steady. He forced the iron deeper, burning through skin, fat, and muscle, searing the broken falcon crest directly over his heart. His Logic Thread Chu hummed wildly, trying to suppress the pain, but Deso actively pushed the Chu's influence away from his nerves. He wanted to feel this. He needed the pain to burn away his mercy, his naivety, his childhood. Finally, he pulled the iron away. A blackened, oozing wound remained, perfectly shaped like the ruined crest. "From this day on," Deso rasped, his voice hoarse and raw, "Deso Fortunados is dead. There is only a weapon." He tossed the branding iron aside. It clattered against the stone floor, dark with his charred skin. Vane stared at him, eyes wide with absolute horror. "You... you are a monster..." "A monster is what is required to kill monsters," Deso said, his face pale and slick with sweat. Suddenly, Vane’s voice cut off. A violent tremor shook the dying man's frame. Deso frowned, stepping closer. His Logic Thread Chu pulsed a frantic warning, its silver light flickering violently. Vane's skin began to stretch. His belly and chest ballooned outward, expanding like a leather bladder being filled with high-pressure water. His veins turned a deep, unnatural shade of violet, visible even through the soot on his skin. "Uncle?" Deso muttered, his hand dropping to his waist where his basic iron dagger hung. Vane's eyes snapped open. The sclera had turned pitch black, while his pupils blazed with a brilliant, mocking purple spiritual fire. The dying man's mouth stretched wide, tearing at the corners as a voice that did not belong to Vane erupted from his throat. "Oh, what a delightfully pathetic little performance," the voice purred, dripping with ancient amusement.

Chapter 3: The Oath of Mutilation