The twin suns of the Dark Star Realm blazed with unrelenting fury, their searing rays scorching the earth below.
The larger sun, a molten orb of fire, hung heavy at its zenith.
Its smaller twin lingered near the horizon, casting a faint golden glow over the jagged mountain ridges in the distance.
The air shimmered with heat, thick with the mingled scents of dust, sweat, and roasted chestnuts.
Yet, in the city of Dark Star, the oppressive zephyr did nothing to quell the fervor of the year's first slave market.
The market square was a chaotic tapestry of life.
Colorful banners fluttered above, their vibrant hues clashing with the grim reality of the chained figures below.
Voices haggled over prices, coins clinked, and whips cracked, punctuating the air with sharp menace.
Merchants, adventurers, and gawkers flooded the streets, lured by the promise of cheap labor and exotic spectacles.
For the great clans and sects, the market was a battlefield—a place to secure strong slaves for the erundum and silver mines that fueled the realm's wealth.
Among the throng, the Twilight Lord Sect stood out like a storm cloud in the midday sun.
Their representatives, draped in shapeless black robes, moved through the trading rows with eerie purpose.
Unlike previous years, when their presence was subtle, today they swarmed the market in unprecedented numbers.
Their sharp eyes scanned the slaves, their whispered exchanges hinting at a hidden legacy known only to them.
This unusual activity did not escape the notice of Dark Star's other great powers.
From a shaded balcony overlooking the square, a man in black robes leaned toward his companion, a young woman with striking blonde hair.
"What are the Twilight Lords plotting, Lady Blu?" he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion.
"Look at them, buying slaves with such zeal. It's unnatural."
Lady Blu, slender and poised, shrugged her delicate shoulders.
Her brow furrowed, betraying a flicker of concern.
"Who knows?" she replied.
"Our informants within the sect went silent weeks ago."
"I suspect they're preparing for something grand—perhaps tied to that cursed cave they've been exploring."
The man's face darkened.
Whispers of the cave had spread among the clans—a place of ancient secrets, or perhaps forbidden power.
"I have a bad feeling about this," he muttered, his fingers tightening on the balcony's edge.
"If that cave is as dangerous as the scouts say, we could be in trouble."
"Don't fret," Lady Blu said, her tone calm but firm.
"The elders are watching the cave's entrance."
"If anything seems amiss, they'll report to the clan leader at once."
Her words eased the man's tension, though his eyes remained fixed on the black-robed figures below.
The Twilight Lords moved like specters, their motives as inscrutable as the desert winds.
Meanwhile, in a cramped pen at the market's edge, a young man stirred from a prolonged faint.
His name was Song, or so the old man beside him had called him.
His mind was a fog as he blinked against the harsh sunlight.
The stench of filth and despair grounded him in reality.
He was in a slave pen, surrounded by others deemed too weak for the main auctions.
A flicker of despair sparked in his dark eyes, but he quickly suppressed it, replacing it with a cold, practiced indifference.
Song was unremarkable to most—a gaunt youth with matted hair and a single, thick tattooed stripe across his forearm.
The "Tattoo of Dominion," a mark of martial prowess, was pitifully weak on him.
One stripe.
A badge of shame in a world where strength was everything.
To the passersby, he was just another beggar, indistinguishable from the city's refuse.
He sat up, his gaze drifting over the crowd beyond the bars.
Men, women, children, traders, and onlookers passed in a blur, their faces indistinct, like shadows in the heat.
Song tried to focus, but their features eluded him, as if the world conspired to keep him in the dark.
Survival demanded resilience.
To feel too much was to break.
"Stop staring at the buyers," the old man rasped, his voice weathered by years of hardship.
He held out a battered flask of murky water.
"It won't change a thing, and you'll only earn a lashing."
Song took the flask, his hands trembling.
"Thanks," he mumbled, forcing down the foul liquid.
The water reeked of rot, twisting his stomach into knots.
He fought the urge to retch, focusing on steadying his breath.
"I know I shouldn't provoke Grue," he said, his voice low.
"But I don't understand what that fat overseer wants from me."
The old man sighed.
"Grue has three stripes on his Tattoo of Dominion."
"He's close to forming a fourth."
"One strike from him could kill you."
"Don't test him, Song."
Song nodded, still battling nausea.
Grue, the senior overseer, was a hulking brute who thrived on cruelty.
His three stripes made him a formidable threat, and Song had learned that defiance came at a cost.
His past was a void, save for one fleeting memory: stumbling through a scorching desert, his mind empty, his body driven by instinct.
A slaver's caravan had found him, half-dead and without a name or clan.
They hadn't hesitated to chain him.
In this world, Song's single stripe marked him as worthless.
Even the old man, who had named him Song out of pity, admitted he had never seen such a weak tattoo in someone so young.
The Tattoo of Dominion was more than a mark—it was a measure of one's potential in the martial arts.
Those with multiple stripes could wield spiritual energy with devastating power, while Song's lone stripe barely allowed him to conjure a flicker.
The old man had speculated that Song's parents might have neglected his training, or perhaps he lacked talent entirely.
Either way, it branded him useless in the eyes of the slavers.
Yet, Song refused to surrender.
Deep within, a spark of defiance burned.
I won't end like this, he vowed silently.
I'll walk through fire or ice to be free.
He had spent his time in the caravan practicing in secret, trying to coax power from his tattoo.
Each attempt was feeble, hindered by the slave collar that suppressed his spiritual energy, but he persisted.
If I train hard enough, there's a chance.
Rising to his feet, Song leaned against the pen's bars, ignoring the curious glances of passersby.
He closed his eyes, focusing inward.
He imagined a trickle of energy flowing through his veins, pooling in his palm.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as his strength waned.
After a moment, a faint, translucent orb materialized, shimmering like woven air.
It held for a heartbeat before bursting with a soft pop, sending a weak pulse of energy across his face.
"Still pathetic," Song muttered, frustration gnawing at him.
"Better than before," the old man offered, his tone kind but tinged with pity.
"But that collar won't let you harness real power."
"I regret teaching you that spiritual exercise."
"It's a fool's hope for a slave."
Song didn't reply.
The exercise, meant for children, was all he had.
His dream of becoming a martial artist grew stronger with each failure, even as the collar mocked his efforts.
Across the pen, Grue watched with a crooked grin, his eyes gleaming with malice.
Slaves were forbidden from cultivating martial arts, and he relished the chance to punish defiance.
Song felt a chill but refused to meet his gaze.
As the suns climbed higher, the market grew louder, the crowd swelling with new buyers.
Even for a city as grand as Dark Star, such a throng was rare.
Song's heart sank, but he clung to that burning spark within.
I will find a way, he thought, his fingers tracing the tattoo on his forearm.
Something was coming—something that would change his fate forever.