The peasants tighten their circle around Kuan, their faces twisted with suspicion and anger. Behind them, Jia’s body is trampled, her limp form kicked and shoved aside as if she were nothing more than debris. Kuan barely looks at her now, his laughter still bubbling in his throat as he wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What’s so funny, boy?” one of the peasants snarls, his voice sharp, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “What are you laughing at?”
Kuan shakes his head, the laughter fading into a low chuckle, his shoulders trembling slightly. “Nothing,” he says, still grinning, his voice light. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong at all.”
The peasant that had ordered Jia’s death steps forward, his stick clutched tightly in his fist. He’s a big man, his face lined with dirt and sweat, his eyes burning with suspicion. “Show us the way,” he says, his tone hard, “through the sewers. To the city.”
Kuan meets his gaze, his expression softening into something resembling calm. “Of course,” he replies smoothly. “I’ll guide you.”
The peasant’s brow furrows, his eyes narrowing. “And why are you so willing to help us, eh? What’s your game?”
Kuan lets out another quiet laugh, almost like a sigh. “No game. I just don’t want to die.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, the other peasants shifting uneasily. The big man takes another step toward Kuan, his stick now leveled at the boy’s chest. “If you try anything strange—if you so much as whisper for help—I’ll kill you right here. You hear me?”
Kuan’s grin stretches wider, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dare,” he says, his tone light but confident. “Why would I want to get myself killed? That wouldn’t benefit anyone. Least of all me.”
The big man watches him carefully, his knuckles whitening around his stick. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, boy?”
Kuan tilts his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. “No. Not clever. Just realistic.”
The peasant glares at him for a moment longer, then spits on the ground. “We should kill you anyway. Make sure you don’t cause any trouble.”
Kuan chuckles again, this time louder, shaking his head. “Kill me? You shouldn’t. I’m far more useful to you alive.”
The peasants exchange uneasy glances, and the big man’s grip on his stick loosens just a bit. “How’s that?”
Kuan takes a step forward, lowering his voice but keeping it steady. “I’m an apprentice of Hunan of the Eastern Bureau,” he explains. “I know things. I’m valuable. If you take me hostage, the guards won’t dare attack you. They’ll be too afraid to risk my life. With me, you can make your terms—get what you want.”
The big man’s eyes narrow again, but this time with a glint of consideration. “And what makes you think we can trust you to guide us to the city?”
Kuan smiles faintly, shrugging. “What choice do I have? You’ve already killed her.” He nods toward Jia’s discarded body. “And I’m not exactly in a position to call for help, am I?”
The peasants fall silent, the weight of Kuan’s words sinking in. The big man looks him up and down, his mouth twisted in thought. Then, after a tense moment, he lowers his stick slightly.
“Fine,” the peasant growls, his tone begrudging. “You lead us. But remember, boy, one wrong move, and you’ll be lying next to her.”
Kuan’s smile doesn’t falter. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He stands at the edge of the sewer entrance, the dim light flickering off the slick stone walls. He straightens his back, ready to lead the peasants through the maze beneath the city, but then, his stomach growls—loud, insistent, and impossible to ignore. His hand instinctively moves to his midsection, and for a brief moment, he forgets about everything else.
He glances at the crowd of peasants around him, half smirking. “So... before we get going, any chance I could get something to eat? It’s been a long night, after all.”
A ripple of chuckles spreads through the group. A few of them exchange amused glances, unsure if he’s being serious or just trying to be clever again. One man, his grin crooked, jabs an elbow into his neighbor. “This kid’s got jokes, huh?”
Kuan, however, doesn’t back down. He straightens, raising an eyebrow. “No, really. I’ve been walking all night. Haven’t eaten a thing.”
The laughter dies down, replaced by murmurs of consideration. From the back of the group, an older man with gray streaks in his beard steps forward. He reaches into the pouch slung over his shoulder and pulls out a small, slightly squashed bao. The man looks at Kuan, his face lined with age but softened by something kinder than the others.
“Here, boy,” the old man says, holding out the bun toward Kuan. “Won’t do anyone any good if you faint on us.”
Kuan’s lips twitch into a faint smile, and he lifts his hand to accept the bao. “Thank you, sir,” he begins, but then pauses, staring down at his fingers. His hands, smeared with grime and filth from the sewers, hover awkwardly above the food. The dirt seems to cling more stubbornly to his skin the longer he looks at it.
He considers wiping his hands on his robe, but before he can, another peasant, a middle-aged man with rough, weathered features, steps forward. “Hold on,” the man grunts, unscrewing the cap of a gourd tied to his waist. He tilts it, and a small stream of water spills over Kuan’s hands, washing away the muck in thin rivulets.
Kuan blinks, glancing up at the man. “Why waste your water on me?”
The peasant shrugs, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a beautiful robe you’re wearing. Paid for with our taxes, no doubt. I’d get real mad if you dirtied it more than it already is.”
Kuan’s eyes flicker with something between amusement and surprise, and he nods. “I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to add insult to injury.”
The peasant chuckles, stepping back as Kuan rubs his now clean hands together, drying them off as best as he can before accepting the bao from the old man. He takes a bite, the soft dough and warm filling melting in his mouth, and for a moment, the world falls away. It’s simple, nothing like the elaborate meals of the palace, but after hours of hunger, it feels like a feast.
He chews slowly, savoring each bite, before glancing at the two peasants who had helped him. “Thank you,” he says, sincerely this time, his voice softer. The old man just nods, while the other grins and crosses his arms.
“Don’t mention it,” the middle-aged man says.
Kuan nods, finishing the bao, the taste lingering on his tongue as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Kuan then steps into the sewers with an eerie calm, the peasants trailing closely behind him. The tunnels stretch ahead, dark and winding, but Kuan’s steps are sure. The stench, though still overwhelming, no longer bothers him—he’s learned to let it blend into the background, much like the tension simmering between him and the peasants. His mind, however, isn't focused on them but on time.
He knows that Hunan won’t be in his office before noon. Mornings are dedicated to meetings—conversations with the Four Gates Eunuchs, ambassadors, administrators, and sometimes even the emperor himself. Kuan has always admired his father’s precision with time. If he moves quickly enough, they’ll reach the city long before anyone important notices his absence.
Yile, however, is another problem. Kuan is certain the boy has already noticed he's missing. His adopted brother, ever the snake, would no doubt be trying to find him by now.
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The sound of squelching footsteps pulls Kuan from his thoughts. A voice from behind him speaks up, rough and suspicious. “How’d you know there was a way out through the sewers, boy?”
Kuan lets out a soft chuckle, not breaking his stride. “I learned it in my training. There’s always more to know than what’s written in books.”
A few peasants exchange glances, and another voice calls out, “Training, huh? And why were you trying to leave, then?”
Kuan shrugs, glancing over his shoulder. “Jia asked me to guide her out. Nothing more, nothing less. We were just unlucky enough to stumble on your group.”
The tension in the air shifts slightly. The peasant who ordered Jia’s death steps forward, his tone lower, regretful. “I… I’m sorry about the girl,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to kill her. I panicked, you know? Wasn’t expecting to find you down there.”
Kuan’s laugh is quiet, almost a sigh. “No problem,” he says, his tone oddly light, even dismissive. “I’d only just met her. People often make bad decisions when they’re stressed.”
The peasants fall into a brief silence. One of them, a thin man with a sunken face, scratches his head, muttering, “Strange boy, ain’t he? Laughing like that, after what happened.”
Another peasant, an older woman with sharp eyes, nods. “Must be that palace education,” she murmurs, her voice low but carrying in the echo of the tunnel. “Or maybe he was born like this. Cold as stone.”
A younger man scoffs quietly. “If the ones ruling over us are like him, no wonder we’re treated like dirt. No kindness left in any of them.”
Kuan hears their whispers. The echo carries every word. Without turning around, he responds, his voice steady but with a pointed edge. “You’re not exactly showing much kindness yourselves. You killed a child and threatened another.”
The tunnel falls silent, the peasants momentarily stunned by his words. Kuan keeps walking, his pace steady, though he can feel their eyes on him, weighing his every step.
One of the peasants, his voice rough and bitter, snaps back, “You don’t know anything about the kind of life we live. Our roughness is earned. It’s survival. Your kind—your leaders—make it worse with every law and every tax. We fight because we have to.”
A woman’s voice rises from the back. “Violence is the only way we get heard. You think peaceful requests do anything? Look at us. Look at what we have to live with. Rebellion’s the only way.”
Kuan listens, his eyes scanning the dark passage ahead. He says nothing for a moment, letting the bitterness and anger of the peasants fill the silence. Finally, he speaks, his voice soft but clear. “Then don’t come to the imperial city with kindness in mind. Because kindness won’t be waiting for you there.”
The peasants murmur among themselves, their voices rising and falling in the enclosed space. They walk on, their breaths heavy with frustration and unspoken rage. Kuan leads, his face calm, but inside, his thoughts are racing. He knows what’s waiting for them on the other side of the city walls, and he knows it won’t be pretty.
Kuan climbs the ladder swiftly, his fingers brushing the cold rungs, and with one fluid motion, he pushes open the trapdoor. The fact that it swings easily confirms his suspicion—Hunan isn’t here yet. The desk that usually conceals the trapdoor remains out of place. He pulls himself up into the office, landing lightly on the polished stone floor.
Without hesitation, Kuan spins on his heel. The peasant behind him, climbing through the trapdoor, looks up just as Kuan’s foot connects with the side of his head. The man grunts, his body jerking back as he topples down the ladder, crashing into the others below with a thud that echoes through the tunnel.
Kuan slams the trapdoor shut, his breath quick and shallow. The peasants below erupt in shouts, fists pounding against the heavy wood. The screams are muffled, but their rage is palpable, like a physical force pressing up through the floor.
Ignoring the chaos below, Kuan moves quickly. His eyes dart around the room, calculating. He strides over to the desk and drags it back into position, blocking the trapdoor. The weight of the solid wood feels satisfying as it scrapes across the floor, sealing off his pursuers.
His gaze shifts to the windows. With a sharp, deliberate motion, he drives his elbow into the paper screen. The lattice cracks under the force, fragments of wood and torn paper fluttering down in soft, jagged pieces. One window after another, he tears through them, the sound a muted rip, unsettling in the quiet office. He grabs a small metal tool from the desk—a paperweight, heavy enough to finish the job on the sturdier frames—and smashes it into the last one, splintering the wooden grid beneath the fragile paper.
The air rushes in, cool and sharp, as Kuan surveys the damage. His movements don’t slow. He sweeps up scrolls, ledgers, documents—anything of value—and begins throwing them out of the windows.
His eyes catch sight of a jar on a nearby shelf, and a thin smile curls across his lips. He unscrews the lid, inspecting the fine orange-red powder inside. His fingers trace the edge of the lantern, which he lights swiftly, the small flame flickering to life in the dim office.
With the jar in hand, Kuan moves the desk back slightly, just enough to pry open the trapdoor. The sounds of cursing and shouting reach him immediately. The peasants below scream insults, their fists still pounding against the door.
“Bastard!” one of them shouts, hurling a rock that bounces harmlessly off the wood. Another shakes the ladder, trying to force the door open. The commotion grows louder when they see Kuan’s face appear briefly.
“You coward! I’ll break your neck!”
Kuan grins, remaining just out of reach. “Here is some warmth for you,” he calls back, his voice calm.
Before they can respond, he tips the jar over, letting the powder scatter across the floor of the sewer below. It dusts the stone in a thin layer, its sharp, metallic scent mixing with the dank odor of the tunnels. The peasants stop for a second, confused.
Then, Kuan drops the lit lantern.
The instant the flame touches the powder—realgar, the tunnel ignites in a blinding flash of orange and white. The fire doesn’t crawl—it explodes, swallowing the space in an instant. The air crackles with heat as the fire races along the ground, the powder feeding the flames like dry kindling. A roar of heat surges upward, the smoke rising fast as the fire spreads with terrifying speed.
Screams erupt from below, desperate and raw. The peasants stumble back, their hands clawing at the stone as they try to escape the inferno, but there’s nowhere to go. The fire consumes everything in its path, the scent of burning hair and flesh filling the tunnel in seconds.
Kuan steps back from the trapdoor, slamming it shut once more. The muffled screams fade as he turns to the shattered windows, the fresh air washing over him, a cool contrast to the blistering heat below. He inhales deeply, letting the chaos burn behind him.
The flames crackle and dance around Kuan as he moves with swift precision, setting the last piece of fabric alight in Hunan’s office. The scent of burning wood and parchment fills the air, thick and suffocating, but Kuan barely notices. He’s already slipping out through the shattered window, his feet hitting the ground with a dull thud as he darts into the open air.
The cool breeze hits his face, clearing his mind for a moment, but as he rounds the corner, he stops abruptly. Yile is standing there, waiting for him, his fan half-raised as if to cover his mouth from something unpleasant. His sharp eyes immediately lock onto Kuan, taking in his ragged, dirt-smeared clothes, the sweat and grime that clings to his skin. Kuan stands there, chest heaving, a crooked smile playing at his lips despite the exhaustion weighing on him.
Yile’s gaze shifts past Kuan to the faint trail of smoke rising from the office behind him. His eyes narrow in calculated suspicion. "What have you been doing, brother?" His voice is smooth, too smooth, the kind that slithers out when Yile already knows the answer.
Kuan wipes a streak of soot from his cheek, blinking through the exhaustion. “What does it look like I’ve been doing? The office was on fire. I jumped in through the window and saved what I could.” He gestures vaguely toward the street where scattered scrolls lie, some caught in the breeze, others sprawled on the ground where he had thrown them.
Yile’s fan snaps shut with a sharp flick of his wrist. He steps closer, eyes narrowing further. “You’re lying,” he says quietly. “I can smell the fire on you, see it in your eyes. Why bother with a story when the truth is written all over your face?”
Kuan, his smile softening into something more dangerous, closes the distance between them. He leans in, his eyes gleaming, the heat from the fire still burning within him. “Yile,” he says, his voice low, almost coaxing, “don’t ask questions when you have no proof. You’re smarter than that.”
Yile blinks, momentarily taken aback by Kuan’s sudden shift in tone. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough for him to recognize something has changed. Kuan’s confidence, the boldness in his words—it’s not something Yile has seen before, at least not like this. Yile chuckles softly, raising his fan to cover the smile tugging at his lips.
“You’ve finally let go, haven’t you?” Yile says, voice dripping with amusement. “The Kuan I knew would never talk like this. I’ve always known you had it in you, waiting to be shaped into something valuable.”
Kuan shakes his head, the smile never leaving his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Yile’s fan closes again with a soft click. His eyes gleam with something between admiration and cunning as he steps forward, wrapping his arms around Kuan in a sudden embrace. It’s not warmth that drives the gesture. As Yile’s pristine robes press against Kuan’s filthy clothes, the dirt and grime transfer between them, staining the silk and filling the air with the smell of sweat and sewer muck.
“Now we match,” Yile says, his voice still smooth but edged with dark amusement. “Can’t have you standing out too much, can we?” He pulls back slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of mockery and affection. “You owe me now.”
Kuan’s laugh escapes him, sharp and free, as he claps Yile on the back. His own embrace is just as calculated, if not more so, pressing their clothes together even tighter, ensuring the stench fully sticks to both of them. “You’re right,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “The stench and filth should cover us whole.”
They stand there for a moment, their arms around each other, laughing softly as the smoke from the fire behind them curls into the sky. The air between them, thick with unspoken truths and shared secrets, feels heavier than ever, but neither boy lets it weigh them down.
In that moment, they are equals. Covered in filth, bound by the same dirt, they are brothers once again—but only for as long as it suits them both.