“Lay not aside the fear of the Light, O Eastern Lord, and beware that ye transgress not the bounds which the path of Dong hath fixed. Observe the injunctions laid upon you in his teachings, and take good heed not to overstep their limits. Be vigilant that ye may not do injustice to anyone, be it to the extent of a single algal phytoplankton. Tread ye the path of justice, for this, verily, is the straight path.
Compose your differences and take up your armaments, so that the burden of your expenditures may be lightened, and that the minds and hearts of our children may be soothed. Heal the dissensions that divide us, and soon ye will no longer be in need of any armaments except what the protection of your cities and territories demandeth. Fear ye the Darkness, and take heed of our cause, for soon the Dark shall pass and the Light intervene.”
Boquin squinted, his eyes darkened with a rim of the eyeliner that accentuated it’s size. He read the concealed text, “624-31 Ave, Wonto Premium Sweets, behind red brick.”
As he rolled the parchment carefully, a few loose strands of his hair fell forward, briefly obscuring his view. With a brush of his hand, he swept it aside and stared at the secret message, visible through the ethereal glow of the light.
‘The hidden lettering won’t disappear, Boquin. That’s the fifth time you’ve checked,’ Liqui said from behind.
‘A touch of caution never hurt. Picture this: Mingchi warms up to our cause, only for him to have no way of letting us know. What comical disappointment that’d be,’ he clicked his tongue at the thought.
‘But what are the odds he would understand our cause? The man seems too virtuous to want to help us.’
‘Liqui, what are you on about?’ Boquin said as he turned to look at Liqui with seriousness all over his face. ‘Is our cause not virtuous? It’s his virtue that has Gan convinced he’ll listen to our pleas.’
‘Maybe virtuous was the wrong word. Maybe…too proud to help us. What makes you think he’ll be different to Gaochi?’
‘Mingchi’s father was a tyrant. His extravagant lifestyle is what landed Pik in a famine like the rest of the East. Blew all his money so he could host bigger parties with other Eastern Lords and Ladies. First thing Mingchi did after Lord Gaochi passed was denounce his rule and promise to ‘de-Gaochify’ Pik; take down statues of his father, rename cities he’d named after himself. Mingchi’s leadership brings a glimmer of hope to many.’
Liqui gave a gentle huff of laughter. ‘Boquin, ever the historian. Just sign the blasted letter and attend his coronation. Gan has duties for me near the border, he’ll have my head if I’m late.’
With a shrug, he conceded. ‘You don’t need to stay, Liqui. I won’t mind if you have to go tend to your duties.’
Despite his words, Liqui sidled closer, hovering over Boquin’s shoulder. ‘Your handwriting is beautiful,’ she noted softly.
Barely registering her words, he took the ink pen from his ear and signed it with wide quick, deliberate strokes, sealing it with their mark.
“May your rule be long and just.With many hopes,
the Yang,”
Boquin signed at the bottom. He felt Liqui linger behind and wondered why she hadn’t left yet.
The journey out of here isn’t fit for two people at once. It’d be better if she just left now.
‘I wish I could write like you,’ she murmured.
‘You always know how to make me feel better about my scribbles, Liqui,’ he said, missing the longing in her eyes. ‘If you’re in a rush you don’t have to stay.’
‘Nah, I like watching you concentrate. I also like sticking around until I can read what you wrote; your work always reads like poetry.’
Boquin swivelled back on his chair to face Liqui, his eyebrows rising in amusement. ‘Would you risk Gan’s ire for my so-called poetry?’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Maybe I should go, but I’ll be back for more poetry, Boquin. Good luck making it through the crowds. I heard Mingchi might give out free boulag rolls and alcohol at the end of his fealty celebration. Light knows why that man made such a decision in the middle of a fucking famine, may as well be tossing out free money. You take care now, may the Light guide and protect you.’
‘You too, Li. I’ll see you around.’
Her footsteps slowly faded into the quiet night, the creak of the sliding door marking her departure. The room was cloaked in dim shadows, save for the soft radiance from his desk. Boquin found a unique serenity in the semi-darkness, a tranquillity that fed his focus. Alone once more, he returned to his work, her lingering warmth imprinted on the room.
Boquin looked at the letter one last time, nodding with approval at his calligraphy.
There, even if he declines our offer, at least he’ll have some nice art to keep.
Boquin stood up from his desk, his chair scraping softly against the rugged flooring of the room. With one last glance at the chaos of his desk, he reached behind it and flicked off the switch to his lamp. Darkness surged into the small, square room, consuming every corner save for the faint dark-blue luminescence seeping through the blinds, painting shadows on the floor.
A sense of peace hung in the dimly lit room, the glow from the single window just bright enough to guide him through the clutter of furniture. Feeling the cold touch of the metal guards on the bunk beds as a guide, Boquin headed towards the sliding door.
Boquin closed the door behind him and stepped into a desolate corridor. The walls, lined with rough, faded bricks, bore the remnants of once-vibrant graffiti now dulled by dust. Discarded construction materials—bags of cement, metal rods, and trowels—littered the floor. The warm glow from a string of hanging bulbs cast long shadows, guiding him past boarded-up doors toward the right-end of the corridor.
A loud squeak echoed sharply, startling him. Turning to the other dead end of the hallway, where the amber lights barely touched, he caught sight of a large sewer rodent struggling to squeeze through a tiny gap. The rat, plump and persistent, kicked and wriggled until it finally disappeared through the crack.
Pik’s famine certainly hasn’t reached rodent society, Boquin thought.
He continued along the corridor, his thoughts drifting to the upcoming coronation in Pik — a grand event marking the transfer of power from a lord to his offspring. Such ceremonies were rare, held near or at the end of a Lords lifetime.
At the corridors end, Boquin was met with a wall covered in the same faded graffiti. Near the bottom of the wall was an opening, big enough for an adult to crawl through. He lay down and pulled himself through the gap, emerging into darkness.
Now is the annoying part of the journey. Boquin was immersed in pitch darkness, but he knew where to go. He slowly got up to his feet, feeling his body lean against the tight space as found his balance. He fixed his vision straight ahead, feeling a gust of wind caress his face. That’s the direction I gotta go.
Boquin turned sideways and slid into a tight opening in front him. In the pitch black, his torso pressed tight, he shimmied further and further down. He was in a tight walkway between two walls. Behind him lay Avenue 23/456; ahead, Avenue 43/516. Within these two barriers, he was invisible to the bustling worlds on either side. Boquin could hear the collective sounds of District Pik — the thrum of music, voices, laughter, and the patter of moving feet. People from either side were travelling to the same destination — Mingchi’s estate.
He continued carefully to avoid scraping against the abrasive bricks. As he moved, he caught glimpses of the city through tiny gaps between the bricks, where needle-thin slits of light pierced the darkness, merging the vibrant sounds of Kowloon with fleeting visual snapshots; the ebb and flow of people, shopkeepers hollering over the bustle, the vibrant life of Kowloon spilling into his secluded, pitch-black passage.
‘Did you ask for the money? He’s seems to keep forgetting.’
And on the other side…
‘I’m gonna bring as many boulag rolls as I can carry home…I’m starving…’
As Boquin inched left, the gusts that had been buffeting his side now rushed overhead.
Finally. Now I gotta climb. He looked up, but the darkness remained constant.
He pressed his back against one wall and pushed off with his legs against the other, gradually elevating himself off the ground. He began his slow ascent, his back scraping against the brick. Boquin was glad his sight was robbed by the dark. The climb had him easily 10 meters above the walkway, but to his brain, it may as well be just under him.
Boquin’s head suddenly hit something solid above—wooden planks. With a push, the planks gave way easily. He quickly shifted the loose boards aside, creating an opening just wide enough to fit through. With a grunt, Boquin levered himself up, his head emerging through the rotted planks into the space above.
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Heaving himself through the opening, Boquin landed in yet another narrow space sandwiched between two walls, just one floor higher. The vibrant sounds of life were muffled here, noticeably quieter than before. Methodically, he edged left along the tight corridor until he reached his target: a square metallic panel at the base of the wall, its fastening bolts already removed.
The panel was askew, not quite covering the opening it was meant to conceal — a clear sign of Liqui’s hurried departure earlier.
I’ve gotta tell her to be more careful. It’s clumsiness like this that’ll blow us over.
Boquin shook his head, applying force to the heavy panel, which turned out to be a toilet seat. With each push, it gradually moved forward, revealing a space just wide enough for him to slip through. Now, on the other side, he ensured the seat was returned to its original position, sitting against the grey-brick wall.
He stood up straight, stretched and pulled his mask over his nose, a piece of loose cloth that attached to the front collar of his robe. Raising the hood over his head, looked around to see if the coast was clear. It was.
Boquin found himself within what was once a prison cell, now a makeshift dwelling within a forgotten jail complex. A few menses-cycles ago, when the Yangs of District Pik were scoping out a new hideout, they had heard about a slum inside an old prison complex.
Cells with still-functional locking bars were used by the homeless as sleeping quarters, and cells that had broken locks became communal spaces.
This location had the added benefit of anonymity for the Yangs. The homeless didn’t care about the comings and goings of unfamiliar faces, so any enquiries about the Yangs would only be met with shrugs and disinterested gazes. It was perfect.
Boquin stepped beyond the wide-open cell door and ventured down the prison hallways. To his left, a series of cell doors lined the corridor, some locked and some open, telling their own stories.
Cells that were used as homes were filled with makeshift structures, ranging in complexities and chaos. Tarps and tin cobbled together into shanties housed multiple occupants in a chaotic display of survival ingenuity. There was no attempt at aesthetic coordination; items were joined where they could fit, and anything that couldn’t hold together had long since collapsed. Boquin even knew of an elaborate structure in one of the cells: a three-tiered construction, each floor just tall enough for someone to crawl around in. The chaotic patchwork spoke volumes about the lives contained within each small space.
During his initial visits, this place had resembled a bleak dungeon in Boquin’s eyes. However, as the weeks turned into months, his perspective evolved. The desolate cells pulsed with unexpected life, turning this slum into a vibrant microcosm of human existence.
He marvelled at how the old prison cells had been transformed into makeshift homes and shops. Lanterns adorned the ceiling, casting a warm, inviting glow. Salvaged speakers hummed with soft music, painting the air with notes of resilience and hope. Empty cells had metamorphosed into communal areas for shared meals and impromptu get-togethers. Occasionally, the flicker of a poorly functioning television would illuminate huddled figures entranced by a zuche game or an old movie. The night often resonated with the faint echoes of shared laughter and dance as the community celebrated the festivals around Kowloon that they otherwise may have been excluded from celebrating as vagrants among the common people.
Boquin ascended a worn flight of stairs and ventured down another corridor, his observant eyes drinking in his surroundings. His concealed face was his shield against curious onlookers.
Glancing at his Handheld Computing Device, he noted the time: 800. The fealty celebration was already underway. He quickened his pace, disappearing into the tapestry of sounds and shadows, becoming just another masked figure in the bustling depths of Kowloon.
As Boquin finally emerged from the old prison cell complex, there was no clearly marked ‘exit’ or ‘entrance’ – only a gradual transition from the secluded prison hallways into the bustling streets of district Pik. The traces of prison life faded away, replaced by the dense population of Pik’s ordinary inhabitants.
Outside, the streets throbbed with life, teeming with people moving almost shoulder-to-shoulder towards Mingchi’s estate. A palpable sense of anticipation electrified the air, making the whole city feel like one gigantic, living organism. The usual dense throng of East Kowloon was now an overflowing tide of humanity, swelling the already packed region with participants clamouring to partake in the festivities. The East, known for its spirited celebrations, was in its element, although the magnitude of the crowds today promised to make things much more complicated. Especially if Liqui was right about Mingchi’s decision to distribute food and drinks during a widespread famine would make his simple letter-delivering task all the more challenging.
His stomach gave an involuntary rumble. He had been rationing his meals too much lately. Being a Yang didn’t exactly mean a life of luxury. Perhaps more akin to a sewer rodent — a testament to Boquin’s recent journey through the walls.
Caught in the slow ebb of the crowd, Boquin felt the urgency of his task seeping away, the delayed rhythm of the masses threatening the failure of his mission.
Boquin let his body unwind, releasing the coiled tension from his muscles, his limbs relaxing into a state of controlled fluidity. His hood cast a deeper shadow over his eyes as he drew it further down to obscure his face. His focus shifted downwards to the moving feet of the crowds around him. He inhaled a deep breath, and then, like a sheh weaving its way to stalk its prey, he began his dance with the crowd towards the estate.
He barely touched the people tightly coiled around him. He was like water, taking the form of the space it occupied. Boquin was moving forward at least three times faster than the pace the crowd was going.
This was a talent he possessed.
His peculiar skill, while not ostentatious, had been critical to many of his assignments. If he were to claim he had the power to move through crowds as if they didn’t exist, he would undoubtedly draw incredulous laughs.
‘The standards for passing shit as a ‘power’ has really been dragged to the dirt, huh?’ He could hear it as clear as a bell. In fact, they were the exact words that had been thrown at him long ago, when he was but a child…
****
‘I’ve never been pickpocketed before. Not until fate put me in your crosshairs. Yet, seeing as I did catch you, you can hardly call yourself a real pickpocket now, can you?’ The tall man’s voice resonated within the dim confines of the small room as he stood over the bound child.
‘I told you how I nicked your pants, can you just untie me and let me go back to my parents?’
‘That line’s not gonna work on me. But, I get the feeling that just like how I’m not used to turning around and finding my pockets empty, you’re not used to getting caught and tied up in an empty room,’ A slow grin spread across the man’s face. ‘My personal record for making it through the Grand East Bazaar is…. three minutes? Three minutes-thirty? But oh, that was long ago. But you…I counted 50 seconds max. I didn’t think it was possible. First told myself it’s probably because you’re so tiny. But I know being small is more likely to get you squashed be an advantage down there.’
‘You’re a fast old fart, I’ve never had a grown-up catch me before.’
The man chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. ‘Oh, you might be giving me a bit too much credit,’ he responded, a cryptic grin playing upon his lips. He squat down eye-level to the child and leaned in, ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve got powers too. I can run faster than any man alive.’
The child looked stunned, eyes widened in astonishment under the dim light. ‘What? How?’
Straightening up, the man lifted his foot and angled it so the child could catch a glimpse of the outsole of his boot. He wriggled his toes within the snug confines of the shoe. As he did so, a rubber plate on the bottom toe-side of the boot mechanically sprung out a few centimetres before retracting neatly back into place.
‘That tiny spring kicks into action when I take off, and the more force I put into my stride, the more it propels me,’ he explained, eyes glinting with pride.
‘What do you need that for? Do you get pickpocketed often, mister?’
The man let out a warm laugh in the small room, devoid of malice, that comforted the child. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I fight bad guys,’ he revealed, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper.
‘What!! So you’re like a superhero? Like the Dragons of Yu? Or the Incredible Cheung-Shee from the storybooks?’ The child’s voice was full of awe, not a sliver of doubt or disbelief in him.
However, the man was taken aback by finding out the child read books, uncommon for most in the East, let alone a child.
‘Well, maybe not quite the Dragons. But yeah, something akin to Cheung-Shee. You enjoy these books?’
‘Yeah! I read them all the time,’ the child responded as his breath quickened with excitement.
Intrigued, the man probed further. ‘Who taught you to read? Where do you find your books?’
The child remained silent, his eyes drifting to the dimly lit corner of the room as he looked reluctant to answer.
‘What’s wrong?’
The child continued avoiding the man’s gaze. ‘You won’t like me if I tell you. A lot of people already don’t like me. And I don’t want a superhero to do the same.’
The man looked taken aback, as if guilty for the child. ‘Hey, superheroes don’t really hate anyone, even the people they beat up. Trust me. That’s what makes them super.’
The child looked up and frowned, ‘Then promise you won’t beat me up like what Bianfu-Ren does to criminals who break the law?’
Amusement sparked in the man’s eyes. ‘Well, I’ve already caught you breaking the law and I haven’t beaten you up yet, have I?’
The child seemed to find comfort in the logic. ‘That’s true I guess…okay, well…I find my books from this place I know near where I sleep,’ the child said, still sounding a little apprehensive.‘Find them? Or steal?’ the man asked with a raised brow, already knowing the answer.
The child shifted in shame.
‘Steal…’ he said quietly. ‘I sneak in, snag as many superhero books as I can carry, then bolt back to my corner to read ‘til my eyes fall asleep.’‘And how did you learn to read?’ The man asked once again.‘I taught myself, with a little help from Mr Chaqiraku, who makes soup near my place. He shows me the hard words. And since you’re a hero…I should confess I have tried to stop my thieving ways. It’s just a little hard. The books always end with mysteries that I must find out in the next chapter.’
‘Do you always feel bad for stealing the books?’ the man asked.
The child paused, a frown creasing his youthful face, ‘In issue #712 Cheung-Shee caught a person stealing food, but he wasn’t even angry at them! He fought the guards chasing them and even let them take more food! But later in the story, they were caught stealing expensive shoes to wear, and Cheung-Shee got so mad at them. He said when it came to survival, stealing was okay. But if it was for fun, stealing is definitely wrong. After finding out that reading these books count as fun…I realised he would be upset with me too. I tried to stop stealing books, but then I saw that the next volume was a crossover with Cheung-Shee and Zhizhu-Ren and I couldn’t help myself. And I just sort of kept stealing from then onwards. So I guess I do feel bad now I know it’s wrong.’
The man was silent for a moment, his face a study in contemplation. Then, he gave the child a warm smile. ‘You’re a sweet kid, you’ve got a good heart. Keep stealing, and don’t feel any guilt. Sometimes, doing bad things to bad people isn’t a bad thing. Even if it’s not food you’re stealing. But try not to steal from ordinary people, people who are innocent of wrongdoing; those are the good people. Try and protect them instead. Steal from big shops, from people you know are rich, steal from the authorities. They’re the bad guys I fight against. The things you’ll be stealing from them are the product of exploitation; they were already yours to begin with.’
Confusion etched itself onto the child’s face, ‘What’s that word mean? Esk-poi-tashen?’
The man chuckled. ‘You’ll find out when you’re older. Or just go ask that soup guy that helps you out. I’ll let you go, kid. I’m not going to ask your name, and you won’t know mine. I have a feeling that one day when you’re older, your pure heart will turn you into a superhero too, and you may even end up fighting by my side. If that day comes, we shall exchange names then,’ His voice was gentle, his patient words imbued with a promise of a bright future for the child.
The child would never forget his first encounter with a real-life superhero.