2026-01-21 21:00:56The morning came too early.
Andrew knew it before he opened his eyes.
The bell didn’t ring—it attacked.
Metal screamed against metal, sharp and relentless, tearing through Ashwake House without mercy. It wasn’t the lazy, half-hearted ringing of ordinary mornings. This was deliberate. Angry. A command rather than a call.
“Up!”
A caretaker’s voice followed immediately, loud enough to echo.
“Everyone up! Outside. Now!”
Andrew’s eyes snapped open.
For a brief moment, clarity flooded him.
The pain in his ribs was still there, a dull pressure beneath his skin, but it no longer ruled him. His limbs felt lighter. His breathing steadier. That strange calm from the night before resurfaced, quiet but firm, settling into his bones.
Prepared.
The word surfaced without permission.
Andrew frowned slightly as he sat up.
Around him, the hut stirred—but not the way it usually did.
There were no groans. No curses. No slow complaints about aching joints or cold floors.
Only whispers.
Low. Nervous. Sharp.
“Why so early—”
“They never ring it like this—”
“Something’s wrong—”
Andrew stood, testing his weight. His body responded instantly, smoothly, as if it had already calculated the movement before his mind caught up. That unsettled him more than the pain ever had.
Eli was already awake, sitting upright, eyes fixed on the doorway.
“Don’t say it,” Eli muttered.
Andrew glanced at him. “Say what?”
“That this feels wrong.”
Andrew paused. “It feels planned.”
Eli grimaced. “That’s worse.”
They joined the others outside.
The courtyard of Ashwake House looked… tidy.
Too tidy.
The dirt ground had been swept clean. Buckets of water stood in neat rows. Old rags were stacked carefully in a corner. Even the caretakers looked different—backs straight, expressions alert, clothes cleaner than Andrew had ever seen them.
Andrew’s eyes narrowed.
This wasn’t routine.
It was preparation.
“Line up!” a senior caretaker barked.
They obeyed.
“Listen carefully,” the man said, pacing before them. “Visitors don’t like disorder.”
His gaze dragged slowly over the crowd.
“Today, you will clean. You will work. You will move when told and stop when told. Anyone who fails will be corrected.”
A pause.
“Publicly.”
A ripple of tension ran through the line.
Andrew felt it too—but beneath it, something else stirred.
Annoyance.
They were handed rags and shoved toward the far wall of the compound.
“Scrub,” a caretaker snapped. “Until it shines.”
Andrew stared at the rag in his hand.
It was damp. Frayed. Smelled faintly of mildew.
He knelt slowly, as if his body resisted the motion.
What is this? his mind snapped.
I’m Andrew.
I’m the son of a billionaire.
Images flashed unbidden—marble floors polished by hired hands, staff who bowed slightly when they passed, cleaners who never met his eyes.
I don’t scrub walls.
His jaw tightened.
I’ve never scrubbed anything in my life.
For a heartbeat, he considered throwing the rag aside. Standing up. Refusing.
The thought felt natural.
Instinctive.
Then reality pressed in.
The caretaker looming nearby.
The watching eyes of fifty hungry children.
Andrew lowered the rag.
Anger burned quietly in his chest as he scrubbed.
This is humiliation.
This is beneath me.
His movements were stiff at first, resentment bleeding into every stroke. Each scrape of cloth against stone felt like an insult carved directly into his pride.
Beside him, Eli scrubbed with exaggerated enthusiasm, panting dramatically.
“They wake us early,” Eli muttered, “and still expect miracles.”
Andrew didn’t laugh.
“This isn’t happening,” Andrew muttered under his breath. “This can’t be real.”
Eli shot him a look. “Trust me. It’s real.”
Andrew clenched his teeth.
I had drivers.
I had money.
I had power.
And now—
“Quiet.”
A shadow fell over them.
The caretaker stared down, expression flat.
Eli nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Andrew said nothing.
He adjusted.
Not because he accepted it—but because he understood something fundamental.
Defiance here wasn’t dramatic.
It was stupid.
He scrubbed faster.
Cleaner.
Efficient.
The anger didn’t leave—but it sharpened.
Remember this, he told himself.
Every second of it.
When the walls were deemed “acceptable,” they were herded into the yard.
“Order drills,” the caretaker announced.
Andrew immediately knew it was a lie.
They were made to run.
Stop.
Rise.
Repeat.
Again and again.
The drills weren’t about discipline.
They were about exhaustion.
About breaking posture. About seeing who cracked first.
Andrew’s body moved without hesitation.
Step. Breath. Turn.
Precise.
Controlled.
He didn’t gasp. Didn’t stumble.
Someone noticed.
A tall boy with a thick neck and scarred knuckles edged closer during one of the pauses. His eyes flicked from Andrew’s steady stance to the way the caretakers’ gazes lingered on him.
Jealousy hardened his expression.
When the signal came to run again, the boy slammed his shoulder into Andrew.
Hard.
Andrew stumbled once.
The boy smirked.
A message sent.
Andrew straightened slowly.
The old Andrew—the one who bought consequences instead of facing them—stirred.
How dare you.
He stepped closer, voice low.
“Do that again,” Andrew said calmly, “and you’ll regret it.”
The boy laughed. “You think you’re special?”
Andrew met his gaze, eyes cold.
“No,” he said. “I think you’re careless.”
The boy swung.
Andrew moved.
No hesitation. No flourish.
He shifted, redirected the momentum, and let physics do the rest.
The boy fell hard, dirt filling his mouth.
Silence snapped across the yard.
Andrew stepped back immediately, hands open, posture neutral.
The caretakers turned.
“What happened?” one barked.
The boy scrambled up. “He—”
“He tripped,” Andrew said evenly. “We were told to run.”
The caretaker studied them both.
Then his gaze lingered on Andrew.
Long.
Uncomfortable.
“Hmph,” he grunted. “Back to your places.”
They obeyed.
Whispers followed Andrew afterward.
Eli stared at him like he was seeing a stranger.
“That wasn’t luck,” Eli said quietly.
“No,” Andrew replied.
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“No.”
Eli swallowed. “Since when can you do that?”
Andrew didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know.
The drills ended near midday.
They were lined up once more, sweat-soaked and silent.
The senior caretaker stepped forward.
“You will remember this morning,” he said. “Visitors will arrive soon.”
A pause.
“Not all of you will be seen.”
Another pause.
“Not all of you will be allowed to leave.”
The words landed heavily.
Andrew understood instantly.
The caravan wasn’t rescue.
It was selection.
An opportunity and a trap, braided together.
As they were dismissed, Eli caught up to him.
“So that’s it,” Eli muttered. “They clean us up. Make us perform. Then decide who’s worth something.”
Andrew looked back at the walls he’d scrubbed that morning.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “And who isn’t.”
At the hut doorway, Eli hesitated.
“If they pick you…” Eli asked softly. “Will you leave without me?”
Andrew turned.
The memory of his old life flickered—wealth, excess, indifference.
Then he looked at Eli.
“No,” Andrew said. “Not without you.”
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
Return Before Sunset
The courtyard did not remain tense forever.After Ronan’s calm order brought the confrontation to a halt, the gang gradually stepped back. The leader held Andrew’s gaze for a few seconds longer, measuring him in silence, before finally turning away with a dismissive motion.“Let’s go,” he muttered to the others.The five followed him out of the courtyard one by one. Their confidence had not disappeared entirely, but something in their posture had changed. The easy laughter from earlier was gone.They left without another word.Ronan remained standing for a moment after they disappeared down the street. His attention shifted briefly to Andrew, then to Eli, and finally to the girl near the broken crate.“You should leave this district,” Ronan said quietly to her.She nodded quickly, still shaken.Then Ronan turned and walked away without waiting for a response.Eli watched him go with a deep frown.“I still don’t understand that guy,” he muttered.Andrew didn’t answer immediately. His b
Six in the Courtyard
The courtyard held still for only a heartbeat after Andrew finished speaking.Then the leader moved.He did not shout an order. He did not need to. The five spread out with the kind of coordination that came from training together, not from random street scuffles. Two circled to Andrew’s left. One shifted behind him. The largest of them released the girl and stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with deliberate confidence.Ronan did not interfere.He stepped back just enough to avoid being in the way, arms loosely at his sides, watching.Eli’s throat felt dry. He had hoped Ronan’s arrival would dissolve the situation. Instead, it had made it worse. Now the fight would happen under the gaze of someone who understood combat far better than any of them.“Andrew,” Eli whispered, barely audible, “don’t be stupid.”Andrew did not look at him.“I never am,” he replied calmly.The first attacker lunged without warning, aiming to grab Andrew’s shoulder and drag him off balance. Andrew pivoted
Names Have Weight
The street did not immediately return to normal after the gang dragged the girl away.The merchants resumed shouting prices. The buyers pretended to bargain. A woman picked up a basket that had fallen during the struggle and brushed dust off it like nothing had happened. The air carried the same scent of dried fish and roasted grain. Only the absence of the girl remained, like a gap in a sentence no one dared to complete.Andrew stepped out from the narrow corner where Eli had pulled him.Eli caught his sleeve again. “What are you doing?”Andrew looked down at the hand gripping him and raised a brow. “Walking.”“That’s the direction they went.”“Yes.”Eli stared at him as if he expected him to add something intelligent to that answer. When Andrew did not, Eli swallowed and lowered his voice. “You said we should just stroll and return early. This is not our fight.”Andrew took two slow steps forward before responding. “It’s not. I’m simply curious.”“You don’t look curious,” Eli mutter
Outside the Gate
The gates of Ashwake House did not swing open often.When they did, it was usually for deliveries, inspections, or discipline.Today, they opened for the thirty.Andrew stepped through without hesitation.He did not look back.The air outside felt different—not fresher, not kinder—just wider. The road stretched ahead in a thin ribbon of dust, cutting through Blackmere City like an old scar. Market stalls were already being arranged. Vendors shouted over one another. The scent of frying oil mixed with damp earth and sweat.It was noisy.Alive.And utterly indifferent to them.Eli stepped out beside him, slower, scanning their surroundings instinctively. “So,” he said under his breath, “this is it.”Andrew adjusted his collar slightly. “It’s a road.”“That’s not what I meant.”“I know.”The other candidates scattered gradually in small clusters, some drifting toward the market district, others walking in pairs with forced confidence. Ronan was already halfway down the street with two ot
Not Equal
Morning did not bring rest.It brought order.The thirty were woken before sunrise, not by shouting or rough handling this time, but by something far more deliberate. A caretaker walked through the huts slowly, tapping the wooden support posts with a short iron rod. The sound was measured. Controlled. Each strike echoed just long enough to unsettle anyone still pretending to sleep.“Selected candidates. Courtyard. Immediately.”There were no insults. No threats. No barked commands.That alone made it serious.Andrew opened his eyes before the third strike reached his corner of the hut. He did not sit up immediately. He listened first — to the shifting bodies, to the hurried breathing, to the nervous energy spreading across the room like static.Across from him, the scarred boy was already awake.Watching him.Andrew held his gaze for a brief second, expression flat, unreadable. Then he looked away first — not out of submission, but out of dismissal.He rose unhurriedly.Eli was tying
The Weight of Being Chosen
The second phase did not end with applause.It ended with fewer faces.No announcement declared success. No caretaker stepped forward to congratulate anyone. The representatives did not raise their voices or signal the conclusion in any obvious way. The tests simply continued until they did not.By late afternoon, exhaustion had replaced confusion.And the number had changed.Thirty remained.Andrew noticed it before anyone said anything. He had counted after each rotation—after the coordination drills, after the questioning sessions, after the silent endurance task where they were made to stand in formation while being observed from the shade.Fifty had become forty-three.Forty-three had become thirty-seven.Thirty-seven had become thirty.The removals were quiet. Sometimes the reason was obvious: a breakdown, a refusal, a visible panic. Other times, it made no sense. A strong candidate would be called aside, spoken to briefly, and then escorted away without resistance.No shouting.
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