In the dim, dank changing rooms on the lower floors of Yu Tower, Cheng stood alone in front of a cracked sink. He splashed cold water over his weary face to banish the grime and exhaustion that clung to him like a shroud. The room, with its rows of mostly empty lockers, felt like a mausoleum. But it was a silence he craved.
The horrific events of that morning haunted Cheng. Gunfire and screams echoed in his mind, vivid flashbacks of storming the apartment in Ji Sia City and uncovering a hidden nest of Yangs. He would never forget the moment he, Keung and Yutai pointed their guns into the room and all three saw Jian. Keung’s sharp intake of breath as he grappled with who he was staring at. No one could have predicted such a turn of events.
Returning to the moment, Cheng was terrified for Keung. His friend was about to enter a whole new world of struggle after killing Jian. Cheng’s position as Tribune afforded him the second-highest rank in the detachment, or the de facto leadership when Keung wasn’t around. He reminded himself that he had everything he needed to protect Keung from the others in the tower.
As he waited by the sink, worry for Keung gnawing at his nerves, Ushi, Tao and Shing finally emerged from the shadows of the outside. Their presence filled the room, but the team was incomplete. Cheng could hear the indistinct murmurs between Ushi and Tao, and the sound of Shing’s massive PAW12 rifle thumping against his back, but no one else. Yutai hadn’t appeared yet, and Lieutenant Keung, the one Cheng was most concerned about, was also absent.
Glancing back, with water trickling down his pale face, Cheng saw Prefect Shing take a seat on the central bench of the changing room. As the group’s marksman, Shing’s post-mission routine remained unchanged; he disassembled his PAW12, then meticulously wiped each part with a microfibre cloth.
Rubbing down the main barrel, Shing caught Cheng’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. ‘You good?’
Cheng frowned, debating whether to ask why Shing had injured Jian instead of killing him. No, it’s not worth it with him. He turned away.
Prefects Tao and Ushi were in a huddle by their lockers behind Shing. Ushi had removed his shirt, displaying his muscular frame. He always claimed his fast metabolism made him feel hot, hence his frequent garment removal. But everyone knew the truth; he just loved showing off his impressive physique. His skin, a shade darker than others in the room due to his southern heritage, was marked with bruises and cuts. Cheng remembered that Tao, Ushi, and Yutai had stayed behind to fend off the remaining Yangs after he, Keung, and Shing chased after Jian. Ushi’s battered body bore the marks of the fierce encounter.
Tao, Ushi’s closest friend in the team, had his curly hair tied up in a loose plait, a post-mission habit. His bruised face was set in a grim expression as he spoke quietly with Ushi, no doubt discussing the events of earlier that day. Observing from a distance, Cheng watched Tao’s fingers absently toying with the Dongist prayer beads around his neck, but he couldn’t help but wonder what was taking Prefect Yutai so long.
Knowing him, probably somewhere in the tower, caught up in conversation.
‘Keung actually killed him. Big boy!’ Shing’s voice dripped with sarcasm and dark humour, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at him. Only the running water in the sink prevented the room from descending into absolute silence.
‘Shut the fuck up.’ Ushi’s weary, scratchy voice conveyed his irritation.
Shing’s smirk only widened. ‘What are you crying about now?’
‘We all know what you did. You could have killed Jian instantly. One clean shot. But you wanted to fuck around, play sadist, toy with the Lieutenant,’ Ushi groused as his nostrils flared. ‘If Jian got away, it would’ve been worth it if only to see the Dragons make you pay!’
‘And?’ Shing scoffed. ‘Jian still died, didn’t he?’
All of a sudden, Tao let out a laugh. ‘Let’s all stop pretending like Shing missed on purpose and isn’t just covering up for his shit aim.’ Cheng watched Tao gently squeeze Ushi’s forearm as he and Shing stared each other down.
A chuckle briefly crossed Shing’s face and then his expression turned pensive. ‘Keung surprised me, actually. I didn’t think he’d pull the trigger. Not sure if I should laugh or cry.’
Cheng’s mouth twisted as he turned and headed toward his locker. Crossing the room slowly, he mulled over Shing’s words.
I also thought he wouldn’t kill Jian. Cheng opened his locker. All along, I was prepared to do it myself, if only to spare Keung the deed. Damn it, why didn’t I just shoot Jian before Keung had to?
As Cheng unholstered his RS7 hand cannon and placed it inside his locker, he froze momentarily, his body tensing as he caught sight of Keung standing in the doorway. The faint flicker of startlement caught the room’s attention, prompting everyone to turn and see Keung as well, except for Shing, who paid him no mind and continued wiping down his rifle.
How long has he been standing there? Cheng wondered.
Lieutenant Keung nodded at them all. ‘Good work, brothers. After many cycles of hunting Jian, we’ve finally killed him. Today wasn’t easy, but our teamwork got us over the line. You can go home and rest. That’s it I guess, dismissed.’
The Lieutenant was about to turn on his heel when Cheng raised his hand. ‘Ah, sir… A word before you go?’
Keung looked at him and gave an upward flick of his head.
‘What did the general say? Are you okay, sir?’ Cheng spoke softly, making sure the others did not hear.
Keung nodded without looking Cheng in the eye, which made him impossible to read.
‘Don’t worry about me, okay? The General said everything’s fine.’
Cheng pursed his lips, unconvinced. ‘If you say so, sir.’
As Keung turned to leave, he whirled back around. ‘Uh, brothers, one more thing. Jian’s passing will be a difficult time for many. I’m sure news has spread that we were the ones behind it, so stay calm and expect reactions. Especially you, Ushi. Please don’t rip anyone’s head off if they say something stupid. My father’s office is open to you all if you want to report any inappropriate behaviour.’
Keung nodded at Cheng one last time, then walked out.
****
Back in his private chambers on the highest floors of the royal palace, Keung lay on the side of his bed and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep.
Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep.
After what seemed like mere minutes, Keung pried his eyes open, rubbing them in surprise as he saw his sleeping quarters had darkened with the onset of Kowloon’s dimming.
Must have been knocked out longer than I thought.
His holocommunicator, which was beside his royal double bed, was still beeping with an incoming call. With a weary stretch, he picked it up and fastened it around his wrist before answering. ‘Hello?’
‘Is this Keung?’ A man’s voice sounded down the line. Stern, almost military-like.
Frowning, Keung pushed himself up to a seated position. ‘Who’s this? You realise this is a private channel. Identify yours—’
‘You’re going to burn in the darkest depths of hell for what you did to General Jian. The man who saved Kowloon is rotting on a crucifix because of you. Make sure your doors are locked tonight because I’m going to —’
Keung hung up, sweating. He could feel the venom dripping from every word. Prank calls from anonymous Kingmakers wasn’t new for him, but this one had rattled him. Are there really Kingmaker in the tower who are planning on hurting me?
No. They’d never.
He sat in his grand room in silence, cloaked in darkness and warmth from the heaters his father always made sure to turn on at this time.
The holographic display on the table at the far end of his chamber told him it was an hour past the dimming, when another side of Kowloon would be waking. A criminal side that blended in with the nightlife. The clubs roared louder, the strip clubs lifted their curtains, drugs and arms dealers traded with impunity, mercenaries walked door to door extorting and bribing shopkeepers, and illegal modification shops switched on the neon lights above their front doors: Now welcoming all customers!
There was an unspoken truce between Kowloon’s post-dimming life and the authorities who roamed during the daytime work-cycles. ‘Stay within your corner of Kowloon, and we won’t interfere with your business.’
That went both ways.
Sitting on his bed, Keung wondered what Jian’s corpse looked like right now. He imagined thousands streaming by the crucifix. Some people wouldn’t recognise the lifeless face of the once great man who’d saved Kowloon during the District Rebellions 25 annui-cycles ago, while others would shake their head at Jian’s pitiful end.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Keung’s stomach twisted as images of Jian rotting on the cross arose, his lifeless gaze asking, ‘Is this what I deserve?’
His head began to throb. Suddenly Keung found himself missing the comforting presence of his father. Rising from his bed, he walked to his study desk, where his trench coat was draped over the back of his chair. He slipped into the coat, its golden stripes accentuating the arms and side skirts, and then proceeded to his personal armoury located next to his bedroom. His collection of weapons, displayed on the wall, was bathed in the room’s blue light. Rifles, light machine guns, energy pistols and other gadgets lined the sound-proofed walls of the room. He grabbed his dependable RS7 hand cannon and left.
As Keung stood inside the lift, staring at the row of buttons, he imagined what his father might say to console him. Would he remind him of his accomplishments? Rising to the highest rank attainable before becoming a Dragon—a lieutenant? Would he speak of the ancient Yaozhi blood that coursed through his veins, emphasising the vital role his ancestors had played in founding Kowloon? Or would he simply acknowledge Keung’s humanity and reassure him it was okay to feel the way he did?
Then Keung’s constant companion, the voice of self-doubt, raised its head again. As it always did.
That’s it. Go run to Daddy. Let him reassure you. Why take control of the situation yourself? You’re a Yaozhi. Others do shit for you. Even if it has to be poor old Ba. No wonder everyone respects you.
Its bitter sarcasm stung. His finger still hovered over the floor button engraved with the character “25”. Then, in an abrupt change of heart, he pulled back.
No, not this time. I have a choice in this. I’m going to do Jian right. His finger moved to the button for Level 15: the King Rail.
The late hour had emptied the port of most Kingmakers. On one of the four tracks, a King Rail sat idle behind a short wall of glass, as if waiting for him. Approaching the console on the glass next to the doors, he entered his destination: Ji Sia City. The place where he had killed Jian. The doors slid open silently, and he stepped inside.
As the carriage sped towards District Yau’s capital, Keung paced, pondering his next steps. All his plans defied Yau’s laws, particularly because Jian was Yang, but Keung hoped his position as Emperor Puyin’s only nephew would protect him from severe repercussions. The relationship between the Ji Sias and the Kingmakers was already fraught, worsened by the lingering resentment over last year’s Yau bombings, orchestrated by the Yangs. Yet, Keung kept reminding himself, It’s just one body. It’s just one body.
If he could retrieve Jian’s corpse from his crucifix, a secretive and speedy cremation would be the only option, despite open flames being illegal across Kowloon.
Less than ten minutes later, the King Rail glided into the familiar docking port, stirring memories of standing here with Cheng just hours earlier. Keung found himself missing him. Kingmakers seldom walked the streets of Kowloon alone. However, Keung knew asking for help would be a waste of time. His unwavering sense of caution and protective nature would never permit him to join such a reckless mission.
Keung slipped through the unremarkable door of the docking port and onto the bustling street. The activity hadn’t waned since he was last here a couple hours ago, even as the dimming fell up here on the 90th level. At these heights, it usually cleared out the streets. The fact that people were still milling about meant those with time to spare had left their homes to search for Jian’s crucifix. An execution like his would undoubtedly be a ceremonious event for the district. The local gossip mill was clearly working overtime.
Right now, he needed to find the crucifix fast. Keung knew Jian’s body would be displayed in a prominent position, a symbol of victory against the fearsome Yangs. Tapping his wrist projector, Keung accessed the Kowlooni Network, a monolithic digital web that connected everyone to news, entertainment and business.
He didn’t need to search for long as the front page featured the breaking news of Jian’s death. And the headline revealed his location.
The Luen siblings announce Jian’s crucifixion in the Gujin Bazaar.
Knowing the name of his destination, Keung pulled up the local area map, a hologram that hovered above his wrist. The orange holographic display was three-dimensional, rendering the local map around him. Fine white grid lines travelling in the three dimensions and thick blue lines showed the physical shape of the interior streets. Each street glowed red to varying degrees, simulating the density of foot traffic.
Other people in the street turned and stared, their faces agape at the advanced technology. The intricate map displayed the complex network of interior streets, stairways, vents, and alleys that teemed with life. Consulting the search bar at the top of the hologram, Keung typed in the four Yue characters—Gu, Jin, Ba and Za. The map panned to a nearby area, revealing Jian’s location.
Even after his death, I’m still hunting for him.
Keung tapped on the hologram and a small information box materialised in the air:
Gujin Complex, Yau.
Established in 734 T.T. 292.
Under Luen jurisdiction.
Keung selected his destination, and a red line appeared, showing the quickest route to the Gujin complex. Despite never having been to this bazaar, he knew what to expect. He followed the crimson line on the hologram, determined to honour Jian’s memory—even at the cost of defying the laws he vowed to uphold as a Kingmaker.
He zipped down narrow stairwells, then descended footbridges and jumped awkwardly onto lower terraces. He slid down angled rooftops, earning himself scraped elbows and bruised shins for his efforts; his balcony leaps had his heart racing at times as he traversed wide gaps high above bustling alleyways. Squeezing through a narrow crack in the pavement, he tumbled into a darkened barber shop, where he opened a window with unsteady hands and scrambled down the rickety fire escape. Four levels down, he found a clothing line attached to its rusted railing, stretched taut between the groundscrapers. Keung grabbed a damp towel draped over the line and zip-lined across. The moisture made his grip precarious, and he lost control, crashing onto a lower terrace where a pile of garbage broke his fall with a loud thud. Finally, Keung stood up and rubbed his elbow as he limped towards the glow of the bazaar.
Navigating Kowloon was like taming a feral beast. Every person who grew up on the streets knew how to saddle and ride it. Most people lived and died in the same area where they were born, so local shortcuts like loose panels, hidden manholes, and crowded conditions were a part of daily life.
But to some who had lived a sheltered life, Kowloon remained wild and unpredictable, a monster revealing its teeth when you stared down its maw. Sometimes Keung didn’t know how it saw him: as an experienced master or a timid child waiting to be knocked down and swallowed whole.
****
The bazaar was pulsating with light and sound, filled with crowds numbering in the tens of thousands. Massive LED billboards, their screens flickering with Yue characters, hung above the street that stretched from one end of the bazaar to the other. On either side of the street rose two colossal groundscrapers, each lined with long balconies that ran parallel to the ground-level thoroughfare. These balconies stacked thirty stories high, each level with its own shops, stalls, and people. Vertical neon signs climbed the faces of both buildings, advertising the chaotic assortment of services crammed into every floor: noodle stands beside beauty salons, shoe shops next to clubs, and high-end fashion boutiques squeezed in alongside fast-food joints.
Keung’s head began to pound from the music and the dazzle of the neon lights. Street performers with wild face tattoos played instruments and twirled with abandon, wishing for spare change their way. Keung watched popular influencers from the Kowlooni Network interviewing randoms in the hope of producing entertaining content for their virtual audiences. The air buzzed with a blend of laughter, conversation, and the steady bass of party music from the upper balconies.
Grand bazaars were vibrant melting pots where diverse cultures from various regions within a district converged. Nearly every district boasted one. In these places, people indulged in their baser instincts, losing themselves in a whirlwind of indulgence in the form of extravagant spending and consumption, drugs, sex and violence.
Despite his headache, Keung fought back a smile at the infectious excitement of the atmosphere. Shing and Yutai would love it here.
As he navigated the wide ground-level street of the bazaar, Keung scanned for Jian’s crucifix, knowing it would be displayed for all to see. Countless shoulders pushed him back every second step he took; the sheer liveliness of the place even obscured his own presence. There were almost no eyes on him, which felt so alien that he glanced at his Kingmaker trench coat to check he was still wearing it.
But just as a Kingmaker was obscured in the bazaar, so was everything else. Keung looked upward, searching for the hanging crucifix amidst the sensory overload without success. Everything mirrored the disorder around it. The multilevel balconies to his left and right overwhelmed his sense of scale. Even the balcony railings, burdened by the weight of leaning spectators, appeared to teeter over the edge.
A couple of Luen gangsters swaggered past Keung wearing thick, bright-orange, sleeveless jackets and dark cargo pants. He overheard some of their words.
‘…that bloody Jian…’
‘…a lashing in hell for every soul he took…’
Lost in thought, Keung bumped face-first into a hulking man, who turned and glared at him.
‘Aye, you fuckin’ blind?!’ He was bulky enough to be a bouncer but wore flashy clothes, as if he was a patron of a club instead: a trendy, high-collared leather jacket with hexagonal seams, and baggy pants with a ribbed design that cuffed just above the calf.
However, as soon as the large man’s eyes darted to Keung’s peaked cap with its gold stripes, his demeanour changed and he slid out of the way, mumbling an apology.
After several minutes, Keung spotted a colossal analogue clock suspended from the ceiling, its neon hands casting an eerie glow. Beneath it, there was a crucifix bathed in the beams of two massive spotlights. He thought he could see Jian’s body tied to it, but from down here, something looked off about the body. The clock was too high and Keung couldn’t focus his vision as he was constantly being shoved by people.
Is that Jian or someone else?
Looking to his right through the shifting crowd, Keung spotted a small kitchen at the edge of the street. Patrons perched on stools beneath a concrete awning, eating in front of a rectangular service window. With a surge of energy, he darted toward it, his eyes locking briefly on the chef—an older woman with grease-stained sleeves and a face etched by years of toil over roaring flames. She worked tirelessly behind the counter, her wrinkled, narrow eyes widening as the warm glow of the kitchen illuminated Keung’s figure. Behind her, jars of home-made chilli oil, pickled vegetables, and bundles of dried noodles lined a narrow counter, ready for sale.
Before the chef could utter a word, Keung grabbed a stool, dragging it into position. With a swift motion, he vaulted onto the awning above the diners. Startled by the heavy thud above them, the patrons glanced upward in confusion as Keung scaled the brick wall, gripping every crack and crevice until he reached the railing of the first-floor balcony.
Turning to face the bazaar, Keung stood on the lip of the balcony, gripping the guardrails tightly behind him. His clutched fingers felt the brush of many people walking past behind him. Focusing once more, Keung strained to see the crucifix clearer. Swaying in the airflow, something did not look right about whoever was up there. The limbs looked too stiff to be a corpse, even the head didn’t look to be slumping down.
He tensed and forced his eyes closed in anticipation of the impending intrusion. With a faint beep, his Eye came to life. When he opened his eyes again, an aqua blue filter washed over his vision, yellow lines outlining the geometric shapes around him. People, railings, and signs all stood out in stark contrast against the backdrop of the bazaar.
The Eye scanned the surroundings, occasionally detecting Yue characters from signs and advertisements and offering translation options for various dialects from distant districts. Keung seldom activated his implant as the fusion of man and machine left him feeling unnerved. Its existence was always a reminder of the foreign presence lurking just beneath the surface.
Amidst the unease that accompanied the Eye’s activation, Keung focused on the cross. The image of the crucifix soon joined the yellow outline of the clock. Slowly, he zoomed in, desperate for any sign of Jian.
There was no human tied to it — it was a straw mannequin!
It can’t be!
A wave of shock and dismay crashed over Keung as he realised someone had already taken Jian down.
The first sign of rot, Keung reminded himself, he’s meant to be there until he rots! Did the Yang take him? Am I the first to notice?
The bazaar’s vibrant allure now felt suffocating as he struggled to comprehend the implications of his discovery.