Xiao Lei sat in the cramped silence of a servant’s quarters, if it could be called silence at all.

  The room was barely wide enough for two narrow cots shoved against opposite walls, leaving no space but a strip of worn floorboards between them. The air smelled of damp wood and stale sweat.

  No window broke the gloom—only a thin line of light from beneath the crooked door. From beyond the walls, sound pressed in constantly: drunken shouts, the thud of fists against flesh, the shrill crack of laughter, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, muffled cries that slid into moans. In this place, noise never slept.

  It had been nearly two months since he’d come to Jingling City. A palace guard met the cart and, without a word, sent him straight to the servants’ warren; a week later his name sat at the very bottom of the roster—errands, scraps, beasts for the kitchens.

  Xiao Lei had not protested. His strength had long since returned. In fact, he had broken through to the sixth stage of Qi Awakening over these weeks. The advancement had come in the wake of his battle with Lei Morin and the others—an edge cut from desperation and tempered in pain. His body, pushed past its limit, had not only recovered but leapt forward.

  Now, in the half-dark, he rose from his cot. The rough cloth of the servant’s garb clung uncomfortably, but he tied it in place without pause. On the other bed, Lian still lay asleep, her hair fanned over the thin pillow. Her breathing was soft, even.

  As he had arranged, she bore none of the daily burdens here. At first, she had protested—her face pale with unease as she watched him scrub floors and haul pails while she sat idle. But when Xiao Lei’s voice had cut through her hesitation—stern, without room for debate—she had obeyed. Use the time to cultivate. To learn alchemy. Do not waste breath on pity.

  From then on, she had given herself to practice, day and night, with a devotion that surprised even him. Already, she had pierced into the seventh stage of Mortal Vein. It was no miracle—Zi Yunshan would never have let his only granddaughter grow weak, and she had clearly been nurtured with herbs and care from birth. Still, to see the girl grow steadier, sharper under his command—this he did not regret.

  He stepped outside.

  The corridors of the servants’ block were narrow, winding like shattered veins through the palace’s outer grounds. The morning air was chill, carrying the sour tang of last night’s spilled wine. When he emerged into the alley, the clamour of the city pressed close. Hawkers calling, hooves striking cobbles, the rumble of wagons. He turned toward the wide road leading uphill, where the walls of Prince Yue Tianze’s palace loomed pale against the sky.

  That was where his labour belonged—not in Princess Xinyue’s residence.

  Since coming here, he had neither seen nor heard word from her. She had vanished from his life as though their meeting had been nothing but a flicker of chance. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps she had offered him this role out of passing pity, nothing more. Day by day, the suspicion hardened into belief.

  But it made no difference. He had not come here to beg for resources. If she had granted him none, so be it. His cultivation advanced regardless, and his purpose in Jingling City did not change.

  He passed through the outer gates of the palace without trouble. The guards barely glanced at him now. They knew his face, and though their cultivation was roughly equal to his, none of them could measure his true depth. The pup at his side—silent, unseen to others—masked it all. A hidden card, one he had no intention of showing.

  The kitchens steamed with heat when he entered.

  Fire roared in the brick hearths, smoke curling thick toward the rafters. Pots clanged, knives struck in hurried rhythm, voices rose and clashed like steel. The air was thick with spice, oil, and sweat.

  No one spared him more than a glance. Everyone here was locked in their own motion, their own struggle to keep pace with the endless demands of the palace.

  Xiao Lei’s hands worked in silence, but his eyes moved.

  Before him lay the scaled carcass of a rank-two spirit beast, the Green Scale Dragonfish. Its armour-like hide gleamed with a dull green lustre, hard as hammered steel. To most, preparing it was a half-day task, a struggle with blades and sweat.

  But Xiao Lei’s fingers found the hidden seams swiftly, prying loose the scales in precise sequence, stripping flesh from bone in minutes. The months he had survived in the Duskroot Wilds served him well now. What others saw as labour, he reduced to art—fifteen minutes, clean and exact.

  Around him, the kitchen roared on.

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  One servant stood at a pot, stirring without focus. The broth boiled too long, black crust forming at the rim. Xiao Lei’s eyes lingered a heartbeat. ‘Sloth. A blade dulled by its own weight.’

  At another counter, a man hacked at roots, shouting jokes to no one in particular, his eyes darting always toward the door. His knife struck wood more often than flesh. ‘Loose tongue. In a storm, he trades secrets for breath—useless.’

  Further down, a girl flitted from pan to pan, movements frantic, hands trembling. She dropped ladles, spilled spice, scrambled after pots she barely understood. ‘Fear-sweat. A person like that breaks before the first blow.’

  Xiao Lei leaned back against the wall, silent, watching. Most were the same. Noise, smoke, heat. Distracted. Weak.

  This had become his quiet routine—peeling more from people than the tasks before him, weighing their habits, their glances, their silences, until a clearer shape of their nature began to show.

  He was about to withdraw his gaze when something pulled his interest.

  In the shadowed corner, apart from the rush, a boy sat on a low stool, polishing knives. His body was wiry, thin as a reed. His face revealed nothing. He did not join in the chatter, did not falter in his task. But his eyes—his eyes tracked every motion in the room.

  When a pot hissed over, he shifted his stool aside before the spill reached him. When a blade slipped from careless fingers, he had already set a bucket in place to catch it. Too precise to be chance. Anticipation. Calculation.

  Xiao Lei’s gaze sharpened. He watched longer.

  The boy never answered when spoken to. His head tilted at vibrations but not at words. Deaf, then. Yet his awareness cut sharper than any hawk.

  For a moment, the boy’s eyes lifted. A flicker only, but enough. Their gazes met.

  Not long—just a heartbeat. Enough for recognition to pass both ways. The boy had seen him. Measured him. Already drawn a conclusion.

  Xiao Lei’s lips curved, faint and cold.

  Interesting.

  Xiao Lei held the boy in his gaze, waiting. It didn’t take long for fate—or weakness—to provide the test.

  The deaf boy, balancing a tray heavy with broth, faltered. One foot caught on the leg of a stool. The tray tipped—steam and oil sloshed over the stone floor with a hiss. His thin arms trembled against the weight, face tightening. He shifted his grip, tried to steady it—too late. The damage was already done.

  Silence prickled through the room.

  A sharp laugh pierced it. “Useless brat!”

  The voice belonged to Jinhai, a thick-shouldered servant who lorded over the weaker ones when the overseer’s back was turned. He strode forward, hand already raised as if to cuff the boy’s head. “Can’t even walk straight—are you blind as well as deaf?”

  The boy’s shoulders hunched, body folding in on itself. But his eyes didn’t shut. They darted, sharp with instinct—measuring the man’s reach, the distance to the nearest counter, even the gap behind him. Fear lived in his posture, calculation in his gaze.

  Around them, the other servants looked away. No one wanted trouble. Better the boy take the blow than themselves.

  Xiao Lei set down the knife in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he turned. His gaze caught Jinhai’s wrist before the hand could fall.

  “Careful,” Xiao Lei said, voice quiet but carrying through the smoke.

  Jinhai blinked. “What?”

  “The broth was meant for the noble’s table.” Xiao Lei’s tone was calm, almost bored, as though reciting fact. “If you strike him now, it will be your hand they’ll see when they come asking why their dishes reek of spilled oil.”

  A murmur rippled through the watching servants. The logic was simple, undeniable.

  Jinhai’s brows drew together. “The brat tripped—”

  “And you were standing right in his path,” Xiao Lei cut in, eyes narrowing. “Too clumsy to notice? Or too eager to punish, hoping no one else would? Either way, if the steward asks, it will sound like your mistake.”

  The man froze, mouth half-open, as if words had deserted him.

  Xiao Lei’s lips curved in the barest ghost of a smile. “Loose hands, loose tongue. Dangerous flaws in the kitchens of a palace. Best you keep them hidden.”

  The tension cracked like a bowstring. Jinhai swore under his breath, yanked his wrist free, and stalked back to his corner. The others bent quickly to their work, pretending nothing had happened.

  Only the deaf boy lingered, still gripping the counter’s edge, his eyes steady now—gratitude warring with suspicion.

  Xiao Lei glanced once at him. No nod, no reassurance. Just a flat look that said—remember who pulled you from the fire.

  Then he returned to his chopping board, hands resuming their steady rhythm, as though nothing at all had occurred.

  Inside, though, his mind was sharp and calculating.

  The boy would remember this. A debt of safety weighed heavier than gold to someone who had none. And Jinhai—humiliated before the others—would lash out again, sooner or later. That suited Xiao Lei just as well. Better a fool declare himself quickly.

  The deaf boy scrubbed until the stone shone. Every few breaths, his gaze slid to Xiao Lei—measuring, not pleading. A blade, still in its sheath. Xiao Lei filed the edge to memory.

  Hours slipped by under the amber haze of evening. Palace corridors cast long, wavering shadows across the stone floor. Xiao Lei’s steps were measured, quiet over the distant clang of closing gates and servants’ calls.

  A sudden shuffle of hurried footsteps drew his attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Shen Mu, the deaf boy, weaving through the maze of alleys toward him, eyes darting for any onlookers. The boy stopped abruptly before Xiao Lei, scanning the surroundings with cautious precision, then pressed a loaf of bread into his hands.

  The loaf was dense, rich—clearly far above the fare allotted to servants. Surprise flickered across Xiao Lei’s face, but he only inclined his head, acknowledgment passing silently between them.

  Shen Mu hesitated, then leaned closer, lips moving in quick, silent syllables, fingers flicking toward the kitchens. Xiao Lei read the message easily: Watch out for Jinhai. Before he could respond, the boy spun away, vanishing into the shadows from which he had emerged.

  Xiao Lei let the bread rest in his palms, the faint scent of yeast and warmth grounding him. He continued walking, steps deliberate, unshaken.

  In fact, a spark of anticipation lit within him—if Jinhai chose to make a move, so much the better. A threat like that could be used, shaped, turned into advantage. A subtle smile curved his lips. Sometimes, a single head on the ground keeps a hundred standing in line.

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.