A fire set—not to warm, but to destroy everything that once gave shelter.

  The Zhōng Dào School had been his home for nearly twenty years.

  He had arrived as a starving boy with nothing but hunger. He had trained in its courtyard, slept in its dormitories, learned its techniques until they became part of his soul. The school had made him—had given him the foundation upon which he'd built everything that followed.

  Now, surrounded by enemies, stripped of allies, facing certain death, Ming looked at that school and felt only rage.

  They abandoned me. The thought arrived clean and hot. The master who claimed to love me. The disciples who trained beside me. They watched as I rose, and they did nothing to stop my fall.

  They tried, the quiet voice argued. The master tried. You refused to listen.

  Excuses. They were jealous. Afraid. They wanted me to fail because my success exposed their weakness.

  The voices argued, but Ming had already made his decision.

  If he was going to die, he would not die alone.

  The fire began at midnight.

  Ming had been preparing for days—gathering materials, studying the school's layout and the timing of patrols by the handful of guards who remained. Most of the disciples had fled after news of his defeat spread. The master was gravely ill, confined to his chambers. The great school that had once been the pride of Foshan was now a hollow shell.

  Perfect. Burn it all. Let them feel what you felt.

  The first flames caught in the storage buildings—dry wood and cloth that had accumulated over decades. Within minutes, the fire was spreading, leaping from structure to structure with hungry efficiency.

  Ming watched from a distance, wrapped in shadows, feeling... nothing.

  This is what you've become, the quiet voice said. A destroyer. A man who burns down his own home because he can't bear to see it standing without him.

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  It was never my home. It was a tool. Now it's a lesson.

  The screaming started when the fire reached the dormitories.

  Figures stumbled through smoke, silhouettes against orange light. A boy dragged another boy by the arm, both coughing, faces streaked with soot and tears. An older student kicked at a jammed door, again and again, until the frame splintered and he fell through. Someone on the roof was calling for help, voice raw with panic—then screams of anguish.

  A bucket chain formed in the courtyard. Students passing water hand to hand, bare feet on hot stone, blisters rising on palms that wouldn't let go. The water hissed against burning wood and turned to steam. A girl sobbed as she passed the next bucket. The boy beside her was praying under his breath, the same words over and over, a rhythm to hold onto.

  Not enough. Never enough.

  A beam collapsed. Someone screamed—a sound that didn't stop. The bucket chain broke as people scattered, and for a moment there was only chaos: running, falling, hands grabbing at nothing.

  Then the chain reformed. Hands shaking. Skin blistered. Still reaching.

  Ming watched.

  Good, the darkness whispered. Let them feel what you felt.

  He didn't move.

  Ming found the master in his chambers.

  The old man lay on his sleeping mat, too ill to flee, too weak to fight. Smoke curled through the doorway behind Ming. The flames hadn't reached this room yet, but they would.

  The master's eyes found him. No surprise. As if he'd known Ming would come.

  "Why?" He coughed. The word was barely a breath.

  Ming looked down at him.

  "Because I could."

  The master's eyes held no hatred. Only grief. "This is who you became. A destroyer. This was your home, too."

  "It was never my home."

  "It was." The old man coughed, and blood flecked his lips. "You just couldn't see it."

  Ming said nothing.

  The fire was closing in. The ceiling groaned. The master didn't try to rise.

  "If the heavens grant you another chance..." The old man's voice was fading. "Be better. Next time... be better."

  Ming watched him die.

  He felt nothing.

  The ceiling gave way. Ming stepped back as burning timber crashed where the master's body had been. Sparks spiraled upward like fleeing souls. He walked through the smoke, past the bucket chain that had finally broken, past students on their knees in the dirt.

  The main hall groaned behind him. He didn't look back.

  It collapsed with a sound like thunder, and the heat hit his spine like a hand shoving him forward.

  He stood in the courtyard, watching the school burn. The heat pressed against his face. Inside, nothing but cold.

  The remaining students had gathered at a safe distance, watching their home die. Some wept. Others cursed. None of them knew that the monster who had done this was standing among them.

  Dawn was approaching. With it came the men who would execute him—the coalition led by Luo Zhenhai, tracking him to the scene of his final crime.

  Ming didn't run.

  And when they found him—standing amid the ruins, watching the last beams fall—he turned to face them.

  Twelve men. Armed. Fresh.

  Ming smiled.

  One last time.

  He moved first.