Before he was the silence,
before he was the hunger,
before he was the one who devoured tribulations and gods alike—
Shen Wuqing was a boy.
Fourteen winters.
Three scars.
Two hands that never stopped trembling.
And one reason to die.
It happened in the third district of Yongzhou's outer rim, just outside the temple ruins turned orphanage where he once slept between broken pews and rat-eaten scrolls. That day, the rain did not fall. It waited. As if even the sky held its breath, uncertain whether it should mourn or watch.
He sat beneath the bridge.
No lanterns.
No echoes.
Only the distant drip of forgotten time.
His clothes were soaked—not with rain, but with the sweat of running. Again. From the sect boys who believed pain was a lesson. From the elders who turned lessons into amusements. From the silence that always waited for him after.
In his left hand: a broken shard of mirror.
In his right: nothing. He had already let go of everything else.
He looked at his reflection in the jagged glass.
There was no tear in his eyes.
Only stillness.
Like someone who had already died three nights ago but whose body had forgotten to follow.
He pressed the mirror against his wrist.
The skin broke easily.
Not with drama.
Not with agony.
Just a soundless parting.
As if the body agreed.
Blood flowed.
And then—
Something wrong.
The blood didn't drip.
It curled.
It slithered back toward the wound, like thread winding itself into a needle.
His skin pulsed.
His flesh twitched.
And the wound—
Closed.
Not slowly.
But hungrily.
He froze.
Then tried again.
Another cut.
Deeper this time.
He felt the sting, the momentary release, the thought: yes, this is the way out—
And once again, the blood turned.
It climbed the shard.
Dripped down the blade.
Returned home.
His skin closed.
The pain vanished.
Not healed.
Eaten.
He dropped the mirror.
Stared at his hands.
The tremble returned—but not from fear. From recognition.
His body was not refusing death.
It was consuming it.
He looked at his wrist again.
No scar.
No mark.
Not even warmth.
His body… liked the wound.
No, not liked.
Needed it.
He screamed. But only inside.
Outside, only the drip of time continued.
He stood. Walked three steps.
Found a rusted iron hook near the alley wall.
Tied it with leftover twine. Hung it above a loose stone. And with trembling hands, wrapped the string around his throat.
He kicked the rock.
The hook creaked. His vision darkened. His lungs clawed for air.
Finally, silence.
Finally—
The rope snapped.
He fell hard.
Not because it failed.
But because his neck twisted midair, and his body shifted, reshaped, rebalanced itself like an animal evolving mid-death.
He vomited black.
Not bile.
Blood that had eaten something it shouldn't.
The hunger had awakened.
And it would not let him go.
He sat there for hours.
Watching his skin pulse.
Watching wounds try to form and get devoured before they could speak.
Watching his bones crack from pressure and mend before they could understand it.
That night, a rat approached.
Scrawny. Half-blind.
Wuqing stared at it.
It stared back.
Then lunged.
Bit his hand.
Drew blood.
The wound flared—
And then the rat screamed.
Its body twisted.
Snapped.
Its skin shriveled.
And Wuqing—
Was no longer hungry.
He crawled backward, hands shaking, eyes wide.
Not because he was horrified.
But because he had tasted something.
Something that made the hunger settle.
Something… warm.
The rat's corpse lay beside him. Small. Hollow. Crumpled like old paper.
He did not cry.
He did not vomit.
He simply whispered into the alley:
I see.
He stood again.
And for the first time, he looked at the world not as a victim.
But as a mouth.
Days passed.
The boys from the sect never found him again.
Because when they tried, something found them first.
The man from the apothecary vanished.
The dogs that snarled near the orphanage barked no more.
People whispered about ghosts in the alleys.
Children dreamed of eyes that never blinked.
And Wuqing?
He wandered.
Not far.
Just far enough.
Eating only when the pain returned.
Never gluttonous.
Only… precise.
A wound would form.
The hunger would rise.
And something nearby would wither.
His body did not grow stronger.
Only quieter.
As if it was shedding its identity one cell at a time.
Until one day, he met someone who knew.
A woman. Dressed in burial robes. Eyes blindfolded with ash silk.
She stood in the middle of a street that no longer had a name.
He approached her slowly.
And she spoke first.
Without mouth.
You are early.
He said nothing.
She nodded, as if expecting that.
You are devouring your death.
He paused.
Then nodded once.
Her voice was not loud. It was not kind. It simply existed where no voice should.
Your Dao is not formed. But it is feeding.
He asked, what is it?
She tilted her head.
It is the grave of answers.
He asked, why me?
She answered,
Because you tried to die,
but death tasted too sweet.
So your body learned to eat it.
He stepped back.
She raised a hand.
I am not here to stop you.
Only to see.
And then, she was gone.
Like she had never stood there.
The street never remembered her.
But Wuqing did.
Even now.
Years later.
Standing in the void of forsaken worlds, after devouring tribulations and gods and screams—
He remembered that alley.
The hook.
The rat.
The woman.
And the wound that refused to bleed.
The Devourer's Path was never taught.
Never passed down.
It was not written.
It was not gifted.
It was not found.
It was born.
In a boy who wanted to end.
But was devoured by the very end he sought.
And now—
He opened his eyes.
No longer the boy.
No longer the victim.
Not even the devourer.
Something else.
Something deeper.
His hands trembled again.
Not from weakness.
But from memory.
And the hunger rose once more.
But this time—
It was smiling.