Wei Feng shuffled into the Master’s office, his body heavy with exhaustion and hunger. His body shook against the lingering chill he had carried from the streets, and his stomach churned with a painful emptiness. The room was a stark contrast to the squalid alleyways he was accustomed to.

  Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their spines filled with strange, complex symbols. Ornate artifacts, crafted from materials he couldn’t identify, sat on polished shelves, catching the light from a nearby lantern. The air was thick with an exotic, unfamiliar scent—a blend of old wood, pungent spices, and something subtly metallic that made his head spin slightly. Polished weapons, swords and daggers of varying sizes, hung on the walls, their sharp edges gleaming ominously.

  Twelve, the man who had led him through the tavern’s maze-like corridors, stood silently near the edge of the room. He was tall and lean, his movements fluid and almost unnervingly quiet. He seemed to blend into the shadows, a silent observer. The Master sat behind a large, intricately carved desk, his attention seemingly absorbed by the papers and scrolls spread out before him. He wore robes of deep emerald silk, the fabric shimmering with an almost otherworldly sheen. A meticulously groomed silver mustache framed his lips, and his dark eyes held a piercing intensity.

  He had expected some form of immediate acknowledgment, but the Master simply continued to pore over his documents, seemingly oblivious to Wei Feng’s presence. Wei Feng shifted uncomfortably, his legs already beginning to ache. He was weak from malnutrition, and the long walk and the tension of the encounter had taken their toll.

  Finally, without looking up, the Master spoke. His voice was deep and edged with weariness, echoing slightly in the large room. “Stand there,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

  Wei Feng swallowed, his throat dry. “Yes, Master,” he murmured, straightening his back as best he could. He stood at attention, his gaze fixed on a point just beyond the Master’s shoulder. Twelve remained silent and still, a watchful presence in the shadows. Time began to stretch and distort. The silence of the room pressed in on him, broken only by the rustling of paper as the Master turned the pages of his scrolls. His legs grew heavier, his stomach growled audibly, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. But he dared not move, dared not even shift his weight. He understood, instinctively, that this was a test. A test of his patience, his endurance, his resolve. He had come seeking service, and now he must prove that he was worthy, that he possessed the discipline to withstand this silent scrutiny.

  To distract himself from his discomfort, Wei Feng focused on the details of the room. He traced the intricate carvings on the desk with his eyes, noting the mythical beasts and swirling patterns that adorned its surface. He studied the delicate embroidery on the Master’s robes, the fine golden stitching and the subtle variations in the thread. He observed the way the light from the lantern glinted off the silver of the Master’s mustache, each hair catching the light like a tiny, polished wire. He tried to memorize the placement of each artifact, each weapon, each book, as if by cataloging the room’s contents, he could somehow understand the man who commanded it.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Master looked up. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, locked onto Wei Feng’s. “So,” he began, his voice deep and resonant, a voice that commanded attention, “you wish to serve.”

  “Yes, Master,” Wei Feng replied, his voice steady despite the tremor of nerves that ran through him. He straightened his back, trying to project an air of confidence he didn’t entirely feel.

  The Master leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Wei Feng. “Tell me, boy,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, “why do you think you would be of any use to me?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Wei Feng took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He knew this was a crucial moment. His answer would determine his fate. “I am willing to work. I am not afraid of hard labor, and I will follow your orders without question.” He paused, then added, “And I am… resourceful. I have learned to survive on the streets, to make the most of what little I have.” He hesitated again, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I am also literate. And I am good with numbers.”

  The Master’s eyes flickered with a hint of surprise. “Literate?” he repeated, his brow furrowing slightly. “That is… unusual for an urchin.”

  “My father was a scholar, Master,” Wei Feng explained, a flicker of pride warming his chest. “Before he passed, he taught me to read and write.”

  The Master nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Why service here?”

  Wei Feng’s gaze fell to the floor. He couldn’t meet the Master’s eyes as he confessed his fears. “I… I won’t last the winter, Master. My health is failing, and the hunger… it is constant. And there are… snatchers.”

  “Snatchers?” The Master’s brow furrowed deeper, a hint of concern entering his voice. His back straightened.

  “Dark figures, Master,” Wei Feng explained, his voice barely above a whisper. “They prey on the weak, the children, the homeless, the intoxicated. I have seen them. I have seen what they do.” A shiver ran down his spine at the memory of shadowy figures and muffled cries in the night.

  The Master was silent for a moment, his gaze distant as if contemplating Wei Feng’s words. Then, he turned his head slightly toward Twelve. “Go,” the Master commanded simply. Twelve nodded almost imperceptibly and slipped out of the room without a sound.

  Wei Feng’s eyes roamed the Master’s office again, taking in the vast collection of books, artifacts, and weapons. He realized that his proficiency with text and numbers, a skill he had almost dismissed as useless, might be his saving grace. In this place, knowledge might be a weapon as powerful as any sword.

  The Master returned his attention to Wei Feng. “Very well,” he said, his voice decisive. “I have a contract for you.” He slid a long scroll across the desk, offering it to the boy, the parchment crackling softly as it unrolled. Wei Feng picked it up, his heart pounding in his chest. The contract was long and filled with complex language, legal jargon that made his head swim. His eyes widened as he reached the terms of service: One hundred years of indentured servitude.

  “One hundred years?” Wei Feng whispered, his voice filled with shock and disbelief. It was an eternity, a lifetime.

  “That is the price of survival, boy,” the Master said, his voice firm. “That is the price of a new life. Do you accept?”

  Wei Feng hesitated, his mind racing. One hundred years was an unimaginable length of time. He would die here, no one lived that long, except for cultivators. But the alternative was a slow, agonizing death on the streets, a life of hunger and fear. He had no choice. He had to accept. “I accept, Master,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “Then, seal the contract,” the Master said, his eyes gleaming. He reached into a drawer and produced a small, ornate knife, and offered ito the boy.

  Wei Feng pricked his thumb, a single drop of blood welling up. He held it out, expecting the Master to take the scroll. But the Master shook his head. “No, boy,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of impatience. “This contract requires more. Bloody your whole hand.”

  Wei Feng stared at the Master, his shock deepening. “My whole hand?” he repeated, his voice incredulous.

  “Both hands,” the Master corrected, his gaze unwavering. “To absolve the contract before its expiry, both hands must be lost.”

  Wei Feng’s stomach churned, and a wave of nausea washed over him. But he steeled himself, reminding himself of the alternative. This was the price of survival, the price of a new life, however long and arduous it might be. He nodded, then pressed his hand onto the contract, smearing the parchment with blood. He repeated the action with his other hand, a profound sense of finality washing over him. It was done. There was no turning back.

  The Master examined the bloody contract, and nodded with satisfaction.

  The Master handed him a small, emerald token, intricately carved and cool to the touch. “You are now Thirteen,” he said. “You will receive instructions. Bath first, find the kitchens, then get some rest. Further instructions will come”.

  He nodded numbly.