THE SYSTEM IS NOT MINE

Yan stepped outside after eight months. The evening air felt strangely light.

Sunset City was loud.

Merchants shouted across crowded streets. Smoke drifted from food stalls. Iron rang from distant smithies.

Yan walked without hurry. His steps carried weight.

At the far end of the livestock market stood a butcher’s yard.

Hooks hung from a thick wooden beam. Dark stains covered the packed soil beneath.

A large man stood behind a cutting table. His sleeves were rolled high along his arms.

When Yan stopped near the entrance, the man looked up. “How much do you want?”

“Not here for the meat,” Yan replied.

“Then move along.” The butcher ignored Yan as his knife fell on flesh placed on a wooden board in front of him.

“I’m looking for work,” Yan said.

The butcher cut the flesh to pieces and packed it for the customer beside Yan, then wiped his hands against a cloth. “Have you ever done this job before?”

“No.”

The man squinted. “Then why come here?”

Yan glanced toward the slaughter frame where a goat stood tied beside the beam. “I want to learn.”

The butcher snorted. “Learn?”

He leaned forward slightly. “Let me ask you something first.”

Yan waited.

The butcher’s voice turned blunt. “Have you ever killed a living being?”

Yan answered calmly. “Yes.”

The butcher breathed. “Still, we don't have a shortage of hands.”

He turned away. “Find work somewhere else.” The butcher moved onto another customer.

Yan did not leave. Instead, he stepped to the side of the yard and stood quietly near the fence.

The butcher noticed. “You didn’t hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Then leave.”

Yan shook his head. “I’ll watch.”

The butcher stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He grabbed the goat and forced its head across the wooden beam. The knife moved quickly and clearly as the blood spilled downward.

Yan watched the blade carefully.

The butcher’s wrist never trembled. The cut always began at the same place, the same angle. A shallow press first, then one smooth pull. No hesitation. No wasted motion.

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The animal struggled briefly, then weakened, then stopped moving.

The butcher lifted the body and hung it from the hook above. Blood dripped steadily onto the soil below.

Yan lowered his gaze. Each drop struck the ground with a soft sound. The soil darkened slowly.

The butcher continued working. Another animal. Another cut. The knife returned to the cloth each time before the next throat was opened—precisely, efficiently, and consistently.

After a while, the butcher glanced toward the fence again. Yan was still watching.

“You’re persistent. Why don't you just go search for a job somewhere else?”

Yan said nothing.

The butcher wiped the blade and leaned against the table. “What do you think of this profession?”

Yan looked at the knife. It was old and spotted with rust near the handle, yet its edge remained sharp from years of use.

Yan answered calmly, “It’s necessity.”

The butcher frowned slightly. “Necessity?”

Yan’s gaze moved briefly toward the soil beneath the slaughter frame. Blood fell steadily into the ground. The earth accepted it without resistance.

Then Yan looked back at the man. “Necessity.”

Yan stood until the butcher closed his shop at night, then left.

Yan returned the next day to the butcher's shop.

The butcher glanced at Yan once and lowered his gaze to the knife as it descended toward the goat.

At the same time, Yan also focused on the knife.

For a moment, the knife seemed the only matter in the world.

Yan stood beside the fence and watched the same work.

Animals were brought forward, their heads forced down against the beam.

Then, a shallow press. Then a single draw of the blade without wasting more strength than required.

The soil beneath the frame darkened slowly as blood soaked into it.

Yan watched everything: the angle of the wrist, the pressure of the blade, the rhythm of the work.

He returned the next day and the day after, and so on.

Three weeks passed.

One afternoon, the butcher wiped his knife against a cloth and glanced toward the fence. “You again.”

Yan stood where he always did. “Yes.”

The butcher studied him. “You’ve been standing there every day.”

Yan said nothing.

The man snorted. “Fine.”

He jerked his chin toward the slaughter frame. “You want to learn?”

Yan nodded.

The butcher picked up a knife and tossed it toward him. “Then stop watching.”

Yan stepped forward. A goat stood tied beside him. The rope around its neck tightened as it shifted nervously.

The butcher untied the goat, brought it in front of Yan, and folded his arms. “Kill it.”

Yan picked up the knife. It felt heavier.

The goat’s eyes turned toward him. Its breathing quickened.

For a brief moment, Yan’s hand trembled. Just once.

Then it stopped.

He adjusted his grip, and the butcher’s movements replayed in his mind.

For a moment, Yan replaced the figure of the butcher with himself in his mind.

Yan pressed the blade against the throat, then pulled. The cut opened cleanly. Blood poured down the beam. The goat struggled for a second, then its eyes turned vacant.

Yan stepped back. Blood dripped steadily onto the soil below.

The butcher approached and examined the cut. “Hm.” He lifted the carcass and hung it on the hook. “Not bad.”

He glanced at Yan. “Most first-timers butcher it wrong.”

Yan remained silent.

The butcher wiped the blade and leaned against the table. “Listen carefully. Butchering is an art.”

He tapped the knife against the wood. “Anyone can swing a blade. Few know where to cut.”

He pointed toward the hanging carcass. “You cut wrong, the animal suffers. You cut wrong, the meat spoils. You cut wrong, the work becomes chaos.”

His eyes returned to Yan. “But if you cut correctly…” He lifted the knife again. “…one motion is enough.”

The butcher stayed silent for a minute, then tossed another blade toward Yan. “Skin it.”

Yan began working. The blade moved slowly at first, then smoother. He followed the natural lines beneath the hide.

The butcher watched quietly. “You’ve got steady hands,” he muttered.

Yan continued working. The hide peeled away cleanly.

The butcher grunted. “Most people take weeks before they learn control.”

Yan wiped the knife.

The butcher looked at the skinned carcass, then at Yan. A grunt escaped him. “You'll do.” He turned back to the table. “Come back tomorrow.”

From that day onward, Yan worked in the butcher’s yard.

Morning turned to afternoon. Afternoon turned to night. Night gave way to morning once more. And each day, the knife moved.

Days passed. Then weeks.

Four months slipped by.

The soil beneath the slaughter frame grew darker with time. Yan’s knife never trembled again.

It had been one year since he and Tan Suzi left the sect.

One morning, Yan was cleaning the cutting table when shouting erupted from the street outside. “Han Defu recruitment! Gather at the Academic training grounds! Today!”

Yan paused. The knife rested quietly in his hand.

The Academic training grounds. The same place as before.

Yan wiped the blade against the cloth. Then he stepped out of the butcher’s yard.