The figures approaching from the far end of the street did not belong in the lower districts.

  Even before they came close enough for anyone to clearly see their faces, their presence alone was enough to disturb the usual rhythm of the road. The lower district was used to crowds, noise, and the constant movement of merchants and beggars fighting for scraps of attention. Yet as the group walked forward, the people around them began to shift aside almost instinctively, the same way water bends around a passing stone.

  Their clothing gave them away immediately.

  The fabrics were too clean, the stitching too fine, the colors too deep to belong to anyone who spent their days in these streets. Their posture carried the quiet confidence of people who had never needed to ask permission to walk anywhere.

  Five men.

  At their center walked a young noble in dark blue robes lined with silver embroidery. His hair was tied neatly behind his head, and the expression resting on his face carried the faint boredom of someone who expected the world to move aside when he approached.

  Behind him followed four others.

  Men who clearly served him.

  Min saw them first.

  His shoulders stiffened as the group turned the final corner and began walking directly toward the Beggar Sect shelter.

  “Oh no,” he whispered.

  Chunma glanced at him briefly before following his gaze down the street. The approaching group did not hurry, nor did they attempt to hide their purpose. Their pace was steady and deliberate, as though the distance between them and their destination had already been decided.

  Min rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

  “Those are not the kind of people you want visiting us,” he muttered.

  Chunma studied them quietly for a moment before replying. “You say that about most people.”

  “That’s because most people visiting us don’t bring trouble,” Min replied.

  The men stopped a few steps in front of the shelter.

  The noble’s eyes moved slowly across the group of beggars gathered nearby, his gaze lingering briefly on each face before finally settling on Chunma.

  For a moment he simply observed him.

  The silence stretched long enough for the surrounding street to begin noticing.

  A fruit vendor down the road paused in the middle of arranging his stall. A pair of servants carrying baskets slowed their steps, pretending to adjust their loads while quietly watching the encounter unfold. Even some of the beggars further along the wall shifted slightly, their attention now completely fixed on the group standing before Chunma.

  The noble tilted his head slightly.

  “So,” he said at last, his voice smooth and lightly amused, “this is the beggar who caused so much trouble yesterday.”

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  Min’s fingers tightened around the rim of his bowl.

  Chunma remained seated.

  “If word travels that fast in this city,” he replied calmly, “I should probably start charging admission.”

  A faint ripple of laughter escaped one of the men behind the noble before he quickly suppressed it. The noble himself did not laugh, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

  “Seo Hyunmin described you as arrogant,” he said after a moment. “I was beginning to think he might have exaggerated.”

  Chunma shrugged.

  “He seemed like the exaggerating type.”

  Min quietly leaned closer.

  “You’re not helping,” he whispered.

  The noble ignored the exchange.

  “My name is Kang Daejun,” he said. “I serve Young Master Hwang.”

  The name alone carried enough weight to make Min’s stomach drop.

  Chunma, however, simply nodded.

  “I assumed you served someone,” he said.

  Daejun’s gaze sharpened slightly.

  “You forced one of our people to kneel yesterday.”

  “He knelt himself.”

  Min groaned softly under his breath.

  Daejun studied Chunma more carefully now, his earlier amusement fading into something colder. “Do you understand whose pride you damaged?” he asked.

  Chunma looked up at him with steady eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you’re still sitting there.”

  Chunma leaned back slightly against the wooden support post beside him. “Standing would not change yesterday.”

  A faint murmur spread through the nearby crowd.

  Even some of the beggars watching from further down the wall exchanged uneasy looks.

  Daejun exhaled slowly through his nose, as though deciding whether he found the situation irritating or entertaining.

  “You embarrassed Seo Hyunmin in front of half the market district,” he said. “That reflects poorly on the young master.”

  Min quickly leaned toward Chunma again.

  “Maybe we should apologize,” he whispered urgently.

  Chunma did not look at him.

  “For what?”

  “For everything!”

  Chunma considered that briefly.

  “No.”

  Min closed his eyes.

  Daejun’s smile returned, though there was little warmth left in it.

  “I had hoped you might be reasonable,” he said. “But it seems Hyunmin was correct.”

  Chunma tilted his head slightly.

  “About?”

  “That you’re a fool.”

  One of the men standing behind Daejun stepped forward at that moment. He was taller than the others, his shoulders broad and his arms thick with muscle. A crooked scar ran across the bridge of his nose, suggesting he had spent most of his life settling arguments with his fists.

  “You going to kneel now?” the man asked with a grin.

  Chunma looked at him for a moment.

  “No.”

  The man laughed loudly.

  Then he swung.

  The punch came fast, cutting through the air with the kind of reckless confidence that came from years of beating opponents who were weaker than you.

  Min barely had time to register the movement before Chunma moved.

  Instead of retreating, Chunma shifted slightly to the side, the strike passing just close enough to brush the edge of his sleeve. At the same moment his hand shot forward, striking the man’s wrist with a sharp, controlled motion that knocked the larger man slightly off balance.

  The man blinked in surprise.

  Chunma stood.

  The movement was smooth, almost casual.

  For a brief moment the two men faced each other in the middle of the street.

  Then Chunma stepped forward.

  His fist drove into the man’s stomach with precise force.

  The impact folded the larger man instantly. The air exploded from his lungs as his body collapsed forward, dropping heavily onto one knee.

  A collective gasp rippled through the watching crowd.

  Chunma looked down at him calmly.

  “You should be careful,” he said. “You might get used to that position.”

  The man roared in anger and tried to stand again.

  Chunma grabbed the front of his robe and shoved him backward.

  The man crashed onto the stone road with a heavy thud.

  For a moment the entire street seemed to freeze.

  Kang Daejun’s expression darkened.

  “Enough,” he said quietly.

  Two more men stepped forward immediately.

  Min swallowed hard.

  “This is bad,” he whispered.

  Chunma, however, was already watching the two approaching men with calm focus.

  His pulse had quickened slightly.

  Not from fear.

  From familiarity.

  This feeling was not new to him.

  Long before he had ever worn a beggar’s robe, he had stood in battlefields surrounded by men who wanted him dead. The tension before violence began had always carried the same quiet thrill.

  He had almost forgotten how it felt.

  Almost.

  The two men lunged forward together.

  And this time, Chunma stepped forward to meet them.