The first light of morning filtered through the small room, casting long shadows on the walls. Ryan stood at the door, his hand resting lightly on the wooden frame as he peered inside. Vynessa lay motionless on the bed. The healers from the temple had been round, casting their healing spells. All she needed now was time.

  Her face, usually stoic and determined, was now softened. Ryan couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as he looked at her. If he drank Demon Blood earlier, this wouldn’t have happened.

  He quietly closed the door behind him, the sound of it creaking faintly in the stillness. He made his way out into the town for a distraction. The air outside was cool, the cobblestone path still bathed in the quiet of the morning.

  Ryan stretched his arms absentmindedly. The Demon Blood still coursed his veins, though not as fiercely. He could still feel the residual strength, the speed gifted to him.

  His hands instinctively clenched into fists as he walked, the veins in his arms almost visibly pulsing. For a moment, he was certain that he saw one of those veins move. He blinked, the vision passing as quickly as it came, and shook his head.

  Focus Ryan, he thought to himself. You’re seeing things now.

  Newvale’s market was bustling this time of morning, and the noise and aromas of fresh bread and blooming flowers were a much needed distraction.

  Ryan’s stomach rumbled as he passed a stall where bread was being pulled from the oven, the aroma rising in the air. He could see the old baker’s wrinkled face, smiling as he handed off a loaf of bread to a young woman with a basket.

  It was too tempting. Ryan was soon savoring the warm, crusty bread, with its soft interior as he walked around the market.

  As he turned a corner, he found himself swept up in a group of people, their voices shouting in anger. Sparks of magic crackled in the air as individuals waved their hands, their gestures filled with frustration. Others held daggers and clubs, a few crossbows slung over their shoulders.

  What is this? he thought.

  "What’s going on?" he asked.

  The nearest person, one of the magic-wielding men, turned to him. "She’s not giving out the keys!" he spat. "She’s hoarding them!"

  The scene didn’t sit right with Ryan. Something was wrong here.

  Ryan pushed forward through the crowd, his strength from Demon Blood parting the way easily. It took him no time before he reached the center of the commotion. Mrs. Keys’s stall.

  He saw the elderly woman behind the counter, her calm demeanor fraying at the edges. She was clutching her magical chest of keys, standing before the furious crowd. She was yelling back, but it was clear her words weren’t reaching the angry mob.

  "Mrs. Keys," he said, turning to the woman.

  “Ryan... thank the gods you're here.”

  "What’s going on, Mrs Keys? Why are they upset?"

  "Rank test keys. They’ve spawned in a big pile—more than I’ve ever seen. People are desperate, they want to get their hands on them. But Terrance told me not to give them out. He said there’s something wrong with the keys.”

  “Terrance? Master Terrance asked to not give them out?”

  Ryan’s mind raced as he heard Terrance’s name again, the words pulling him back into memories he’d rather not revisit. The name reminded him of his recklessness, his foolishness.

  He looked around at the crowd, their anger palpable, their voices rising, demanding their piece of whatever was being held back from them. It reminded him too much of his own impatience that led him to act before thinking, just to get what he wanted.

  He couldn’t stand it anymore. He wasn’t going to let them make the same mistake.

  With a deep breath, Ryan focused, his legs flexing beneath him, and in an instant, he jumped. Sky Leap took him upwards, his feet leaving the ground with a force that sent the crowd stumbling back. He landed on the roof of Mrs Keys’s stall, the wood creaked beneath his weight.

  “Listen up!” Ryan shouted. “Wait! No one is getting a key yet!”

  He paused, scanning the sea of angry faces. “Master Terrance has ordered Mrs. Keys not to hand out any more keys.”

  The reaction was immediate, defiance rising from the crowd, as if his words were a spark thrown into kindling. Someone near the front shouted up at him, their voice dripping with scorn.

  “You just passed your rank test, and now you’re gonna stop the rest of us from getting our keys?”

  The words hit Ryan harder than he expected, the sting of their judgment biting into him.

  Was that true? Following orders when it suited him and defying them when it didn’t. Was he just like them?

  But before he could respond, another voice rang out from the crowd, even louder this time.

  “You wouldn’t be standing up there like a king if you didn’t get your key, would you?” The words were a venomous accusation, one that hit too close to the truth. “You’d be down here with the rest of us, demanding what’s rightfully yours.”

  Ryan’s heart skipped a beat. That was exactly what he would have done. If he hadn’t passed and he knew his key was there, he’d be down there with them. Angry. Desperate.

  A part of him wanted to deny it, to shout back that he wasn’t like them, that he wasn’t part of this mob—but that would have been a lie. What made him different?

  “You’re right. I would be angry too. Believe me,” Ryan said aloud. “But now... I’m asking you to listen. To Terrance. There’s a reason he doesn’t want Mrs. Keys handing out the keys. He’s trying to protect us all. I—"

  The words barely left his mouth before they were drowned out by the rising tide of voices. The crowd jeered and shouted, anger bubbling to the surface like a pot left too long on the stove.

  “I don’t want to listen to you!” someone yelled. “I want my key!”

  The crowd, fueled by frustration and the hunger for what they believed was rightfully theirs, began to push forward. Clubs and sticks, once idle, were now raised high, aimed at Mrs. Keys’s stall. The sound of wood striking wood echoed, and the soft crack of the stall’s frame buckling under the pressure sent a ripple of tension through Ryan’s chest.

  “Stop!” Ryan shouted, his voice rising, the desperation in it now raw, unrefined. His feet hit the ground with a loud thud, landing lightly but firmly between the crowd and the stall.

  “Stop! You’re destroying it!”

  The words didn’t matter. The mob was past reason now, caught up in the chaos and frustration.

  A man, towering over Ryan, gripped a club in his hands.. “Who’s going to stop me?” the man spat, his breath sour with rage.

  He had come down here with good intentions, trying to protect Mrs. Keys and stop the mob from wrecking everything in sight. But now, faced with the challenge, his mind clicked into focus.

  His power.

  His power wasn’t to take. It wasn’t to demand his own rights or push through with force. It wasn’t about arrogance or privilege. It was about protection. It had always been about protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves.

  “I will.”

  The man with the club swung at Ryan. He sidestepped it effortlessly, the weapon missing him by mere inches.

  In the same breath, Ryan closed the distance, one of his arms snaking out with deadly precision. Ryan’s hand were locked around his throat, the grip iron-tight. The man gasped, his hands clawing at Ryan’s arms as his face turned red.

  Viper Choke.

  The man’s body jerked and struggled, and Ryan let go as the man was at the cusp of falling unconscious. Ryan stepped back and looked at the angry crowd, still angry, but more hesitant.

  A new danger presented itself. A sheathed sword swung from behind, aimed at the back of his head. Ryan’s reflexes were a blur, he ducked low, his body dipping to the ground.

  Ryan wrapped his legs around the other man’s, using his weight and speed to trip him. The man’s ankle twisted as he dropped to the ground, his sword falling from his hand.

  Mamba Lock.

  Ryan didn’t pause. He was already pivoting, his senses sharp. A woman with her hands on fire with Burning Hands rushed at him. Ryan’s reaction was immediate.

  He reached out and grabbed her arm. Her body jerked as he twisted her arm behind her back, locking it into a painful position. The fire flickered out as she groaned in pain.

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  Anaconda Twist.

  With the three down, Ryan thought that the message was clear. But he was wrong.

  A fourth man stood forward, wielding two shields, each sharp enough to be used as deadly weapons. The man charged with brutal speed, his eyes full of rage.

  Ryan’s stance shifted immediately, preparing for the charge. He grabbed both shields with a motion so fast it seemed like a single strike. The force of the grip spun the man off balance, and Ryan used the momentum to lift him off the ground.

  The man was weightless, his body airborne. Then, like a serpent wrapping itself around its prey, Ryan brought the man crashing down. His body was pinned, his arms wrapped around his legs. He was trapped.

  Way of the Snake Ultimate Technique: Ouroboros Cycle.

  Ryan’s breath was heavy, he hoped he did enough to get the mob to go away. But just as his muscles began to relax, a voice rang out.

  “How did you get so good so quickly, Ryan?”

  Ryan turned, and Rey stood at the edge of the crowd. His fellow trainee in Martial Arts School, confronting him.

  “You’ve been using it, haven’t you?” Rey asked. “The Demon Blood.”

  Ryan felt the words hit him like a hammer, and instinctively, his mouth opened to protest, to deny it. But even as the words began to form, a wave of guilt washed over him. He had used Demon Blood.

  “No,” Ryan said.

  But he took it to protect people. To protect Vynessa. It had to be done.

  “Hypocrite,” Rey spat. “You took the rank test just before everyone else, didn’t you? Cheated your way through it with Demon Blood. You’ll lie to everyone, to yourself, just to get ahead.”

  Ryan clenched his fist. He did take a shortcut. But it was in desperation. He had never threatened anyone, never pushed Mrs. Keys to give him the key.

  "I didn’t cheat," Ryan said, his voice a little tighter now, the words coming out more forcefully. "And I didn’t threaten Mrs. Keys to get my key either."

  “Save it,” Rey said, before dashing to Mrs Keys, his eyes fixed on the chest.

  This wasn’t going to be another lecture or argument. Ryan had to act.

  Ryan took a quick step forward, his fingers already reaching out to grab Rey’s arm, to stop him before things got out of hand.

  But Rey wasn’t having it. With a swift motion, he turned and unleashed a Wing Swipe, his arm sweeping across in a wide arc. Ryan leaned back, the fist barely passing his nose.

  The moment the attack missed, Ryan moved, his body a coiled serpent, his speed a blur. He slipped into Serpent Strike, a lightning-fast jab aimed straight at Rey. The punch landed cleanly, connecting with Rey’s face with a dull thud. Blood sprayed from Rey’s nose, staggering him back.

  Ryan didn’t wait for the retaliation. He sparred with Rey before. Ryan knew Rey would come at him harder.

  With a swift leap, Rey used Sky Leap, propelling himself into the air. Ryan barely had time to react before Rey twisted in mid-air, his leg extending for a Soaring Talon, a back-swing kick aimed straight for Ryan’s head.

  But Ryan was already moving, his body ducking beneath the attack, slipping low as Rey’s foot sliced through the air where Ryan had been just a moment before. Before Rey could land, he followed through with another strike—Twilight Talon, a downward finisher meant to crush Ryan beneath him.

  But Ryan wasn’t there.

  He dodged again, slipping just out of reach. As Rey landed, Ryan had closed the distance, as he executed another Serpent Strike—this time a lightning-fast jab that landed squarely on Rey’s face.

  Rey’s body snapped backward, the force of the blow sending him crashing to the ground. Ryan stood over him, his breath steady.

  He extended his hand to Rey, his voice low but steady. “Get up,” he said. There was no mockery in it, no triumph. Just an offering.

  It happened in a flash. Rey attempted to Mamba Lock, his legs trapping Ryan’s. But Ryan wasn’t so easily caught. He slipped under Rey’s grasp, dodging the entangling legs.

  Ryan stood there, disappointed that the helping hand was rejected. Yet Ryan knew it well. He too refused a helping hand once. In pride. In arrogance.

  Rey, face flushed with humiliation, didn’t waste another moment. He was frustrated but he knew he was outmatched. There was nothing left for him here. He pushed past the crowd and left.

  The crowd, still in a frenzy, watched as Rey disappeared into the market, but the tension didn’t subside. People began to inch closer, their intent dangerous.

  And then, just as things were about to boil over, the unmistakable sound of clinking metal pierced the air. A sudden cascade of coins dropped into the crowd like a rain of iron.

  Heads turned, eyes wide with confusion as a figure appeared at the edge of the market. It was Myke, Mrs. Keys’s son, though his appearance could not have been more different from the humble woman he was related to.

  Ryan watched as Myke adjusted his flamboyant feathered cap, tilting it with exaggerated flair, a grin spreading across his face like a salesman about to close a deal. The man was dressed in a bright, lavish coat, the kind of garment worn more for show than for practicality.

  "Well, well," Myke said. He tucked at the front of his coat with an exaggerated flourish. "I am so sorry to drop those iron coins on you, but I can’t let you all destroy my mum’s stall. Now, can I?"

  There was something almost theatrical about him, a salesman’s charm mixed with an air of practiced politeness. The crowd had paused, unsure of how to respond.

  He turned, pointing toward Ryan and his mother, the smile still plastered on his face.

  "These two are right," Myke said, his voice now carrying an almost rehearsed tone. "These keys? They’re bad news."

  He paused dramatically, letting the words hang in the air like a thick fog. "A little cat over in the Leonid Tribe told me... twenty-five keys came out there too. And all twenty-five died in their tests."

  A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Ryan caught sight of some faces going pale, others looking at each other in hushed murmurs. The Leonid Tribe, Ryan thought. He heard of them, of their fierce warriors. But for twenty-five of their people to die in a test? The idea settled over the crowd like a chill, the whispers growing louder.

  "Now that is disappointing," Myke continued. "But what isn’t disappointing," he added, his grin turning wider, "is a discount."

  The crowd fell silent, their confusion turning to curiosity, each word that Myke spoke pulling them further into his web.

  "When you all do get to bronze, and trust me, you all will get there," he winked to the group, his arms sweeping in an exaggerated arc, "we will give you a discount for bronze keys. A little something for your trouble, eh?"

  Ryan stood back, watching the scene unfold, his fists still clenched at his sides. Was this the way to solve problems? Bribery and lies? It had seemed to work, the crowd less furious.

  And then, a man stepped forward—a figure clad in full plate armor. The armor was worn, dented in places, but still sturdy.

  "These are all lies," he shouted, his gaze fixed firmly on Myke. "You’re trying to deceive them, to deceive all of us. You cannot fool everyone."

  Ryan tensed, his body already coiling with readiness. His eyes flicked between Myke and the armored man, watching for any signs that the conflict would erupt again.

  But Myke, ever the showman, did not flinch.

  "If you don’t trust me," he said, his voice smooth, almost musical, "surely you can trust my mother. She has been the keymaster of Newvale her whole life."

  "No," the man spat, his voice hard. "Not after this. After what you’ve done, I’ll trust nothing you say."

  But Myke, still with that wretched grin, wasn’t finished.

  "Surely," he said, his voice now a little softer, "we can make a deal, yes? Something mutually beneficial for all parties?"

  The armored man said nothing, his jaw tight, his stance unwavering as he took a step forward.

  It happened so quickly, faster than Ryan could see, but he knew in an instant what had just occurred. A gold coin flew from Myke’s hand, spinning through the air. The coin pierced the air with a sharp whistle and punched itself through the armored man’s thigh with a sickening thunk.

  The man collapsed onto the ground with a scream, the plate armor clattering against the cobblestones as he crumpled, his hands clutching at his leg, trying to stop the blood that poured from the wound.

  Ryan’s gaze flickered to Myke, still standing coolly, not a flicker of remorse or surprise crossing his face.

  "Healer Meliza is just over in the village," Myke said, as if nothing happened. He casually strolled up to the fallen man, his hand reaching into his coat and pulling out a small piece of parchment. "Tell her Myke sent you," he added, the piece of paper now in the wounded man’s trembling hand. "She’ll give you a discount for her services."

  Myke pulled a gold coin from his pocket and began rolling it between his knuckles with exaggerated ease, making sure everyone saw it. The soft click of the coin as it spun between his fingers was a reminder, a threat.

  "You can take the discount, and leave,” Myke said. “Or…”

  The implications were clear. Myke didn’t need to finish his sentence. Ryan looked around as the crowd dispersed, unsure if they had been pacified or simply frightened into silence.

  Myke turned slowly, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips as his gaze shifted from the now-dispersing crowd to Ryan.

  "I suppose I owe you a reward for helping my mother," he said. "But you didn’t turn up for your mining job. So, maybe we’ll just call it even."

  Ryan stared back at Myke, his thoughts a mix of frustration and confusion, but the words escaped him. Myke, seeing his moment of indecision, didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned to his mother.

  "What are all these keys about, then?" Myke asked.

  Mrs. Keys stiffened, wincing before she opened the magical chest in front of her, revealing a pile of bronze keys. The keys, each one with a name etched onto its surface gleaming softly in the low light.

  Ryan’s eyes flicked over them, his stomach tight as he recognized the similarity. It was the same as when he had received his bronze rank key, except his had been a singular piece.

  "Wow," Myke said. "These are worthless."

  Without warning, Mrs. Keys slammed the chest shut, the thud of the lid resounding like a final statement.

  "Not everything is about gold to me, Myke," she snapped.

  Myke held his hands up, his grin faltering slightly, but he wasn’t done.

  "Sorry, Mum," he said. "You might change your tune if you heard what the reincarnated adventurers said about this square. Brutal, savage, and way more difficult than a regular bronze test. The best of the Beastfolk, slaughtered easily."

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed Myke’s words, his stomach tightening. What square was this? Was it harder than his test?

  "So, what does Terrance want to do?" Ryan asked.

  "I’m not sure," Mrs Keys said. "Terrance is heading back to Newvale. I think he’s just trying to figure out what to do next."

  Before Ryan could offer a response, Myke cut in again, his voice casual, almost indifferent.

  "Well, we can’t sell rank test keys and he’s not letting us give them away," he said. "Guess Terrance will keep them."

  "Keep them?" Ryan repeated, almost to himself. "Is that it? Just hold on to them?"

  "Why not? What else are we going to do with them?" he replied. "Anyway, I’ve got to go. Important customer to find."

  "You should stay, Myke," she said. "In case the mob comes back. You saw how they acted before."

  Myke hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if the weight of his mother’s words were more than he expected. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he turned back to face her. "Fine," he muttered.

  Mrs. Keys watched him sit down in the stall, clearly unhappy with the decision, before turning to Ryan.

  "Thank you for helping me with them earlier. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stepped in,” she said. "You’ve grown strong, Ryan," she added.

  “I’m still learning martial arts," he replied, a humble shrug slipping into his words.

  "No," she said. "Not just in your body, but in your beliefs. That’s the strength that matters.”

  He looked at her, his throat tight, unsure of how to reply, but he simply nodded.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Ryan finally said.

  “I know you will.”

  ******