Morning broke. The Veil—that slippery dimension that guards essence, her key to rewriting this story—remained out of reach. No matter. She had a plan, and it demanded patience. For now, survival was the priority.

  The marketplace stretched before her like a living thing—heaving, sweating, reeking of roasted meat, fresh grassy herbs, and iron. Stalls leaned against one another like drunks, their coverings swaying wherever the wind nudged them. Ren Lin moved through the crowd, steps steady but heavy, her stomach growling in protest.

  But what was hunger? A passing state, nothing more. She had lived with it—the long nights hunched over pages, ink pressed so deep into her fingers it had become part of her, hours slipping away like they’d been devoured by something unseen.

  A vendor handed a steaming bun to a laughing child. Ren Lin’s jaw tightened as she turned away.

  Breakfast wouldn’t fall from the sky. Her pockets matched her stomach—empty. That left only one option.

  She timed her movements with the crowd’s surge. One swift motion: a handful of nectar sponges, tucked into her sleeve. No hesitation. No second glance.

  Just as she turned to leave—

  “Hey!”

  A sharp voice snapped through the air.

  For a split second, her muscles tensed. Had she been caught? Was it a mistake to even try?

  She kept walking, as adrenaline and shame filled her up. She must keep her calm, resisting a quick retreat or a glance back, since they would only draw attention and suspicion.

  “Did you just take something?”

  Finally, Ren Lin couldn’t ignore it any longer; she turned back, however—the voice wasn’t directed at her?

  The shopkeeper held a little beggar boy’s wrist tightly, as his eyes narrowed. “Little street rats like you think they can steal from me without consequences huh?!”

  The boy winced trying to pull free.

  However, all Ren Lin felt was relief. A relief that was undeniably satisfying to her, showering all the adrenaline and shame off.

  Stepping away, ignoring the scene, she turned down a quieter alley and examined her prize.

  Nectar sponges.

  They were round, with thin, semi-transparent skin that barely contained the glistening pulp inside. With a gentle squeeze, golden nectar seeped from the porous flesh, pooling in her palm. She licked it off her fingers before taking a bite. The taste was crisp and cool, like freshly cut watermelon, but softer, the nectar bursting in her mouth with a mild vanilla note.

  This world may have been an unexpected cage, but at least the food was exquisite.

  By the time she finished, her hunger was satisfied, and her thoughts turned.

  The man at the bar had been right. She was just an ownerless slave in this world. It was just a question of time until someone would take her.

  Unless she took something first.

  She thought about it all day. Turning over every possibility.

  Only one kept rising to the top.

  Back into the tavern.

  The thought coiled cold in her gut. But fear was a luxury. If she was going to kill her former self—the silent, obedient thing that let others write her story—then this was where it started.

  Courage. Calculation. Ruthlessness.

  These were the new commandments.

  By the time she reached the tavern, her steps no longer hesitated.

  They carried weight.

  The tavern door gave under her palm with a brittle creak.

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  Same stale scent—old wood, smoke, the tang of sweat and beer. But this time, the air didn’t feel like it was pressing down on her. She pressed back.

  Inside, the world was dim. Lantern light flickered amber across tankards, half-eaten meals, and blurred conversations. No one looked up.

  Her eyes didn’t move quickly. They moved deliberately—scanning faces, wrists, details. Not just who wore a tag, but how they sat. How they drank. Who kept their back to the wall, who fidgeted, who watched the door.

  She passed a pair of gamblers hunched over chipped ivory tiles. No tag. A courier asleep in his cup—bare forearms, calloused but bare. No tag.

  Then: there.

  Near the hearth, in a chair slightly too fine for the room’s stink, sat a man alone. His clothes were worn but tailored—scuffed boots but polished buckle. A shallow dish of barley wine steamed beside his elbow. He drank, brow furrowed, eyes fixed on the glove before him—a low-grade Core. Disdain filled his gaze, untouched by caution.

  And around his right wrist, snug and unmistakable: the dull gleam of bronze.

  It wasn’t large. No need for it to be. A tag wasn’t made to impress, only to declare. You had passed the trials. You were First Order. You had weight. You belonged.

  What the mortals here didn’t know was that First Order cultivators weren’t much stronger than them. They were just humans who could make and use Cores.

  The fear higher cultivators engraved in them—conditioned them with. That’s what made them obey even First Order cultivators.

  Still, Cores were no trivial matter. Even in the hands of a low rank, they could be deadly. Every cultivator possessed at least one or a few, but mortals? They couldn’t even do anything with them.

  She watched him shift slightly in his seat, brushing the tag against the edge of the table, oblivious to his surroundings.

  Perfect.

  Not because he was weak.

  Because he was comfortable.

  Her eyes took in his tag as precisely as they could. It was a simple metal stud fitting perfectly into the punched hole on the strap.

  She sat alone, away from others. In her mind, she rehearsed—plopping the wristband open, distracting him with words, his eyes on one hand, theft in the other. Eyes shut, she mimicked the movements until they felt like instinct.

  Maybe that was why no one came near. She must’ve looked mad. Still, she continued. Once… twice… ten times—until the numbers stopped mattering.

  Only when the gestures felt natural did she rise. Her steps were slow, unhurried, calm settling around her like fog. No direct gaze, not yet. She let her presence warm the edges of his awareness before she said a word.

  Then, with just the right tilt to her voice—low, like a shared secret—she asked:

  “Do you want to know your future?”

  He eyed her up and down. “What?”

  “I can read your future through the palm of your hand.”

  “I’m not going to pay a slave for her shenanigans.”

  “You don’t believe that I can do that,” she said lightly, brushing a splinter off the edge of his table. “Because it makes you feel like you're giving something up. Power. Position. Dignity.”

  Her voice wasn’t accusatory. It was smooth, confident—almost sympathetic.

  “But you’re wrong.”

  She met his eyes. Steady. Still.

  “Even if I misread your future, you won’t lose anything. In the worst-case scenario you gain amusement, no money will be lost, no respect. No one will ever know this happened. You can choose if you believe in what I will tell you, if you just let me.”

  His brow raised. “Why me?”

  “Because out of everyone here you caught my interest the most.”

  He sighed. “Fine. But just make it quick.”

  “Thank you, not everyone is so open minded.” She grabbed his wrist with both hands, turning it palm up. “May I?”

  “Do what you have to do.”

  Instead of his hand, Ren Lin looked at the fastener of his wristband.

  “I need you to stand up for me.” She said, sliding her thumb between the overlapping band.

  Slightly stumbling before he stood, she lifted her other hand and snapped her fingers—a sharp sound meant to distract. At the same moment she pushed the tight leather strap out of the stud. Her heart raced as she broke in a cold sweat.

  The man turned startled at her raised hand.

  “What was that for?”

  “It’s part of my technique, waking every part of your future up.” Her heartbeat steadied as she quickly pocketed his wristband.

  The man shook his head. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Ren Lin gently turned his hand in hers, tracing the lines with the tip of her finger. Although her touch was featherlight, it also trembled slightly. Yet, she needed to keep acting as if reading a scripture written in flesh.

  “Mm,” she murmured, as though weighing something. Her brows knit. “You’ve already lost something, haven’t you?”

  The man scoffed. “Everyone’s lost something.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, “but you didn’t realize yet what you’ve lost.”

  Her gaze stayed on his palm, but she felt the hitch in his breath.

  “You lost something that once made you feel real. Like you belonged somewhere. You tell yourself it was taken by force. But if you’re honest…” She tapped lightly where two lines crossed. “You let it go. You let someone else speak louder than you.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “However,” she continued, lifting her head slightly, “you’ll have a choice soon. An opportunity. Small, almost forgettable—but if you take it, it leads to something that changes your standing. Not just in your rank. In how people speak your name.”

  His silence sharpened. Not disbelief, not mockery. Consideration. A tiny seed of belief, or at least curiosity. Enough.

  Ren Lin gave his hand a final brush, closing his fingers as if sealing a secret inside.

  “That’s all I’ll say.”

  She turned before he could question her further. The tag, cool and solid, was already pressed against the small of her back, wrapped in the folds of her tunic.

  “Wait,” the man said, frowning as if left too early. “That’s it?”

  She smiled gently, as though amused by his disappointment.

  “What did you expect?” She turned away before he could respond. “The future doesn’t shout. It only whispers fragments.”

  She slipped out through the tavern’s haze, her steps unhurried. No glance back. No trace of guilt. Only the certainty of momentum.

  By the time he realized his wrist felt lighter, she was already gone.