As Xiangzi stepped out of the shop, a shrill alarm bell pierced the air.

A group of police officers emerged from their checkpoint, clustering together and stretching a long yellow cloth barrier across the street.

Pedestrians halted, forced to stand behind the tape.

Jincheng Lane, usually orderly, took on a grim air.

What’s going on?

Blocked by the barrier at the shop’s entrance, Xiangzi, tall and sturdy, saw more clearly than those around him.

At the street’s end, a shadowy procession of carriages approached.

Uniform black-lacquered coaches, each pulled by four towering horses, rolled slowly through the city gate.

The carriages, seemingly iron-made, creaked under their weight, leaving deep ruts in the ground.

Surrounding them were lean men in short tunics.

Xiangzi squinted—each bore the characters “Baolin” on their backs.

Baolin Martial Hall fighters?

Doing delivery?

“Hey, got eyes, don’t you? Delivery may be lowly, but it depends who it’s for,” said the scar-faced man from the shop, suddenly at Xiangzi’s side, a half-smoked Hardmen cigarette dangling from his lips.

Xiangzi pulled out a matchbox, struck one with a scrape, and offered it. “Brother, what’s the cargo? Why’s Baolin’s fighters delivering it?”

“Tch—” Gray smoke curled from Scarface’s mouth.

“Not just any fighters. Baolin’s outer disciples,” he said, puffing away.

Outer disciples?

Xiangzi’s jaw dropped. After weeks of training, he knew the score—Baolin’s outer disciples were ninth-rank bone-tempering experts!

Such figures, just escorts for embassy district deliveries?

What kind of big shots are in there?

Eyeing the iron crates on the carriages, Xiangzi asked, “Brother, what’s in those crates?”

Scarface sucked his cigarette to a stub, reluctantly flicking it away.

Pointing at Xiangzi’s chest, he grinned. “What’s in there? Same as what you’re carrying.”

Xiangzi blinked, touching the vitality broth in his jacket, realization dawning.

Vitality broth?

Seeing Xiangzi’s dazed look, Scarface chuckled. “That broth’s refined from what’s in those carts—demon beast meat hunted outside the mines!”

Xiangzi nodded, understanding.

No wonder vitality broth boosts a fighter’s vitality. It’s made from demon beast meat.

He’d never seen a demon beast, only heard they were fearsome, their bodies treasures. Regular ranked fighters couldn’t even get close.

Oddly, they only roamed the mine outskirts, never nearing the city.

Strange.

After the dozen carts lumbered past, the officers lifted the barrier.

It was all for show—who’d dare rob a convoy guarded by Baolin’s outer disciples?

The spectacle over, Xiangzi pulled up his hood and clasped his fists to Scarface. “Thanks for the lesson, brother.”

“No trouble,” Scarface said, arms crossed, smiling. “Give Liu Tang my regards.”

Xiangzi paused. No wonder he’s so friendly—Tang’s old acquaintance.

“May I ask your name, brother?”

Scarface didn’t answer, turning back into the shop.

The leather curtain swayed as a weary voice drifted out. “Just say it’s from the pharmacy’s no-good senior brother who never ranked. Liu Tang’ll know.”

Xiangzi bowed toward the curtain, acknowledging.

Scarface has history. Likely from Baolin, but never ranked.

No wonder he knows so much.

Exhaling, Xiangzi touched the vitality broth.

Time to test its effects.

Refined from demon beast meat—ought to be something special.

Leaving Jincheng Lane, the choking smog thinned.

Cautious, Xiangzi skipped hiring a rickshaw, walking back instead.

West City to South City wasn’t far, just past West Gate.

But Harmony Rickshaw Yard was in South City’s east end, a trek across five wards and seven streets.

Should’ve pulled a rickshaw myself—could’ve earned a few coins.

South City was a chaotic mess.

Police checkpoints stood empty.

Streets teemed with children, grass markers in their hair—sold by desperate families.

Northern lands were rough, but Forty-Nine City was a haven.

With embassy district bigwigs around, no warlord dared aim cannons here.

Outside the city, though, warlords fought over land and grain, stripping the earth bare, leaving refugees like swarms of ants.

Since Marshal Zhang ousted Marshal Cao years ago, claiming Forty-Nine City, he’d open the gates on select days to let refugees in—supposedly to earn merit for his devout mother.

In a few years, South City brimmed with ragged souls.

Xiangzi himself had entered this way.

But not everyone had his strong frame to find labor in the city.

Those who couldn’t starved slowly; women turned to dark alleys for coin.

When all else failed, selling children was the last resort.

Not always out of cruelty—many parents hoped their kids would land in a big household as registered servants, at least fed.

When Xiangzi first arrived, he’d pitied them, tossing a coin or two when he could.

Now, he was numb.

This world’s rotten to the core. No saving it.

“Spare something, sir?”

An old man clutched Xiangzi’s pant leg.

Skinny as a skeleton, his ashen face ageless, his cloudy eyes pleaded.

Beside him was a frail girl.

In Forty-Nine City’s chilly spring, she wore a tattered earflap cap and an oversized, scavenged coat, tied with rags, shivering in the wind.

Xiangzi noticed—no grass marker in her hair.

He said nothing, shaking his leg free with a gentle pulse.

The light in the old man’s eyes died.

Half a street later, Xiangzi sighed, stopping.

He bought fresh meat buns and two servings of bean juice, turning back.

Seeing Xiangzi return, the old man’s dull eyes sparked, as if understanding.