The streets pulsed like veins of elemental light.
Carts rolled by, powered by wood qi cores. Lanterns floated above merchant stalls, each carrying scent spells that lured the hungry with whispers of spices. Children dashed past in robes too clean for the outer districts, laughing without fear. Students proud, loud, glowing with fresh auras — wandered past in groups, talking about "dual affinities" and "potential sponsor clans."
Wan Juo moved through it like a ghost in a graveyard.
His cloak hung like a shadow across his back. His boots barely held together. His stomach coiled inward with each whiff of roasted skewers and broth.
And then he saw it.
A noodle stall.
Simple. Wooden. Glowing faintly with maintenance talismans. A small fire under a large bronze pot. Steam rose into the dusk like incense. There were no chairs — just upturned crates, and a single crooked sign burned with a single word in gold ink:
"Cheng's Flamepot."
He stepped forward.
"One bowl. How much?" Wan Juo rasped.
The vendor, a thick-armed man with a bald head and a scar that curled behind his ear, didn't look up.
"Ten silver."
Wan Juo blinked.
"Ten?"
The man nodded.
"That's right."
"Ten silver?! What's in it?! Divine Spices from Mount Tai? Heavenly chilies?"
Now the man looked up. His eyes were tired, but not unkind.
"You mock. But you'd kill for a taste."
Wan Juo didn't deny it.
The man gestured to the steaming cauldron behind him.
"Hand-pulled noodles soaked in marrow for three days. Egg brined in lightning brine.... actual lightning, not the academy fluff. Fire Lotus chili. A broth passed down from an ex-Elemental Chef of the Second Ring. My wife. She divorced me and took the technique. I stole it back."
Wan Juo stared.
"You're overcharging."
"No," the man replied, tapping his price sign. "I'm surviving."
"What about the poor?"
"They die. Or they learn to stop being poor."
That one hit deeper than it should've. Not because it was cruel.
Because it was true.
Wan Juo's throat felt dry. He shifted.
"Would you let someone starve in front of you?"
The vendor leaned forward on both elbows.
"Listen to me, Kid. I've seen Third Ring prodigies burn themselves into ash for fame. I've seen daughters of noble clans sold off because they awakened the wrong affinity. You think this city runs on kindness?"
He jabbed his ladle toward the air.
"This city runs on power. And you... You've got none."
Wan Juo's fists clenched. Not in anger. In cold, bitter agreement.
"You're not wrong."
The man smirked.
"Didn't think I was."
Wan Juo looked once more at the pot. Steam curled into the dusk like a dream too expensive to hold.
Then he stepped back.
The vendor watched him go in silence.
Wan Juo stood at the edge of the square.
Crowds swirled. Life continued. No one cared that he was starving. No one would care if he collapsed.
He lowered his head slightly, but his thoughts cut sharp like ice.
"Pride," he thought, "is just the illusion the weak wear when they have nothing else."
"To the strong, pride is currency. To the weak, it's a leash."
"Pride is the first sacrifice on the altar of survival."
He remembered the pit. The cages. The silent screams. The way prisoners held onto pride even as they chewed on rats and wept in their sleep.
Fools.
"Pride doesn't keep you warm."
"It doesn't earn you power."
"It doesn't fill your stomach."
Only power did that. And power demanded humility in the beginning.
"To discard all sentiment is the first step to clarity."
Wan Juo had discarded sentiment years ago.
Now, it was pride's turn.
He turned to a busy intersection, where dozens of students and townsfolk passed.
He stepped forward. Inhaled.
Then shouted:
"Spare change! Spare change!"
The world moved around him.
Some ignored him. Some frowned. A few whispered "Cinder Root trash." A noble girl raised a silk sleeve to block the sight of him like he was filth.
But others...
A fruit vendor gave him a bruised apple.
A cultivator in green tossed two copper coins.
A boy in training robes hesitated, then dropped a silver coin without a word.
Wan Juo accepted it all with silence. His "smile" was faint not from warmth, but recognition.
"The world doesn't care for pride. But it rewards resolve."
He bowed slightly. Only slightly.
"May the flame keep you warm," he murmured.
He counted his haul: eleven silver. Three copper. A bruised apple.
Enough.
He stood tall.
"This spot's not bad," he muttered. "Might turn it into a business someday."
From across the street, two cloaked youths watched and whispered.
He didn't care.
Let them whisper.
He would eat tonight. He would survive tomorrow.
And one day… he would buy that damn noodle shop, burn the recipe, and rewrite it in his own name.
Steam still curled above Cheng's Flamepot, golden and defiant, like a signal fire to all who had coin.
Wan Juo stepped back into the square, coin and bruised apple in hand, gaze fixed like a blade drawn under moonlight.
He walked up to the stall again - slower this time. His movements were deliberate. Almost like a challenge.
The vendor looked up.
He blinked once.
Then laughed.
A low, amused rumble that cracked through the clatter of the street like thunder wrapped in smoke.
"Back already?" the man asked, brow raised. "Did you find ten silver under a rock?"
Wan Juo didn't smile.
"I begged."
The man paused.
"…You actually did it?"
Wan Juo dropped the coins on the wooden counter. "Eleven silver. Three copper. I want a bowl."
Cheng didn't move at first.
Then, without a word, he scooped the broth, added the noodles, cracked the lightning egg, and dropped a spoon of chili oil with ceremonial slowness.
He slid the bowl forward.
Wan Juo didn't wait. He grabbed the bowl like a sacred artifact and drank.
It hit like fire - not just in his mouth, but in his bones. His veins lit up. His stomach, long starved of real food, tried to sing. He coughed once. Then kept eating.
Cheng watched him.
"You did it. Begged. Didn't think you had that kind of spine."
"I don't have the luxury of pride," Wan Juo muttered between mouthfuls.
Cheng grunted.
"That makes you smarter than most."
He scratched his bald head, stared at the rising steam, then jerked a thumb toward the back of the stall.
"You want work?"
Wan Juo paused. Blinking.
"I beg once, and you offer me a job?"
Cheng shrugged.
"Most beggars cry. You didn't."
"I see.. "
Wan Juo put down the empty bowl.
"What's the pay?"
"Three silver a day."
"And food?"
Cheng nodded. "One meal per shift. No stealing. No complaining. You mop, you haul crates, you refill the spirit burners, and you don't talk back to customers even if they smell like elemental dung."
Wan Juo wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Deal."
Cheng grinned.
"You start tomorrow. Show up before the lanterns light. Wear gloves. The firepot's older than both of us, and if it explodes, I'll feed you to the fire spirits."
Wan Juo didn't flinch.
"Got it."
He stood.
Tossed the bruised apple into a nearby crate for later.
And walked off.
But not before turning slightly and muttering,
"…I'm buying this place someday."
Cheng snorted. "That'll be the day. Don't burn it down first, kid."
Wan Juo walked back toward the Cinder Root compound, the warmth of noodles in his belly, and something else tucked behind his ribs - not hope, not pride, but momentum
A small step forward.
He passed the square where he had begged. The whispers had died down. The city didn't care. The city never would.
He had gained a bit.. few coins, and a job