The Year ‘35, 4th Month, 18th Day

– Fei Cui, Jae-dyn

Old Man Peng’s Runner Den, The Red District

4:07 PM

Madness, in the year ‘35 within their boundless Centrality, was all too common.

Soldiers returned from the First Great War with their veins pulsing with lustered elixirs, embracing both father and mother, whose hairless scalps had since been overgrown with boils and welts. They were all sick, each in their own wretched ways. It did not matter, in the end— madness would overtake them.

As Kizuna sat, picking at one of the cuts on his forearm, hidden beneath swathes of cotton, he wondered if perhaps Sunren had befallen the same fate.

We can still make our trade.

He could not recall the man being so allured by money. His curiosity curdled sour almost instantly. All Kizuna could do now was wait until they got to the wet markets— and Sunren told him what this deal was all about.

Sunren had left with a small smile gracing his face, muttering about how he’d bring the motorcar over. So, Kizuna sat, pinching at his golden, wounded skin on the filthy concrete sidewalk.

If the man wished to offer him money, then so be it. Kizuna was in no position to refuse. The Triads were hardly so hospitable.

The Triads, with all the kin they must have been able to spare, offered him nothing; despite Kizuna being their greatest investment. A single night of death and resurrection, and they could amass over twenty thousand kin.

In return, they offered him protection; from enemy gangs who could whisk him away. Kizuna did not consider the little thought that told him the Triads sought only to keep him as their sole property.

His fingernails ached from his scratching.

Sunren would gain nothing, aiding him. Any meager assistance could never free Kizuna from the Triads. Could never free him from his shackles— from what fate bid him to be tethered to.

Kizuna withdrew his fingers from beneath his gauze, and raised them up to his face. There was blood, glimmering against the dark afternoon sky around him. He was entranced, staring at the way the stain gathered into a measly dewdrop as he pulled his fingertips to his eye.

And between his index and thumb— was a man.

He was wedged between a streetlamp and a post box, a trenchcoat falling heavily across his shoulders. From his lip dangled a single cigarette, a lone tuft of moon-silver smoke wafting upwards. Kizuna lowered his hand, eyes trapped to his palm.

The man faced him. Had been facing him.

Kizuna, as languidly as he could, swept his head upwards as if to scrutinize the lamp post erected beside the man.

In tandem, the man spun his gaze away.

It was unmistakable, now. He was watching him.

Sweat beaded Kizuna's temple as he looked down the road. There was still no sign of Sunren.

The man was blind, after all. He relied solely on his Cultivation to drive, and even then he would need to concentrate for minutes on end just to siphon enough xi from his surroundings, in order to see five feet ahead of himself.

Kizuna rose with hobbling knees and turned to the runner’s den. If he were able to slink back inside, he could at least be sheltered.

For once, in all his years, the Triad’s measly promise of ‘protection’ had finally garnered a use.

Footsteps echoed from behind him, solid and weighty.

Kizuna rapped on the door with two fists, hoping that sound alone would be able to convey his panic.

A shadow appeared behind the door’s barred window, and Kizuna breathed a sigh of relief as Peng parted his aging lips and spoke, “I’m sorry, but my two sons are—”

“Excuse me.”

The voice was barely audible as a hand shot past Kizuna’s ear, and landed squarely on the door. The metal door warbled and the ensuing bang of noise made both him and Peng’s shadow jump in place.

Kizuna could see the unknown man’s shadow cascade over his smaller form like a curtain. Whoever this person was, he was huge.

Kizuna gulped as Peng wavered, and then stepped away, his footsteps pattering deeper down the hallway. This bastard.

Kizuna forced his voice to keep from stammering. “May I help you…”

He still had not made sense of the man’s face, but he could see the sleeve of his trench coat, falling in just the right way for a metallic armband to shine through, the surface embossed with etchings of kousa dogwood— Wўtai’s national flower.

Very few occupations carried such a symbol on their uniforms.

Kizuna clenched his teeth, and added kindly, “...Enforcer?”

“Yes,” the hand retracted itself from the door, and Kizuna realized with a start that this voice seemed familiar. The way the syllables were always clipped short, the words leaving the jut of the man’s throat like dark molasses down a spoon, though his phrases were anything but sweet.

But it was the faint scent of alcohol from the man’s mouth that finally brought clarity to this Enforcer’s identity, as he muttered, “You may, Shen.”

A shudder ran down Kizuna’s back. Just hearing that name from this man’s mouth, with all the darkness and anger that could possibly be afforded to him; made his stomach drop and his mouth burn dry.

He did not even turn around before bolting.

It was all for naught, though.

Kizuna had only just about managed three paces when the smell of iron and petichor jolted his senses. He tried to not let this deter him, and Kizuna rounded the den’s corner, eyeing the fire escape that led to the building’s flat rooftop.

If he were only able to climb to the top, burst his way through the fire escape door, and rush down to where the bar was, he’d at least be able to escape from the Enforcer by having the other Triad members distract him.

Kizuna huffed as he faced the den’s alley. There, secured by bolts was an aluminum ladder, leading to the roof. He took a second to steady his breathing and focus.

If he were to be killed by this Enforcer and snap right here, then this entire building, everyone still inside, and even the man giving chase would perish—

Able to at last face the Enforcer as he stepped a foot onto the first rung, Kizuna was nearly blinded by the whorls of vibrant white that were bleeding from the man’s frame. Massive palms framed by brisk slants of incredibly faint arctic blue, and fingers rung with luminous divine light.

While the man was clearly drunk out of his own mind, there was a guttural, wild hunger in his eyes— one that was able to give him the ability to channel his xi even better than before.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The Enforcer stood his ground. His Phase, no doubt, was Metal. Kizuna knew this, from when they had met before.

Another circumstance, not unlike this one.

Though, Kizuna was sure that the Enforcer did not recall.

Kizuna climbed rung after rung, because while the Enforcer stood prone now, he was aware what this aura was heralding.

The man had a coin clenched between his fingers, which he deftly tossed to the air.

The Enforcer’s dark blue eyes blared a bright white as the coin made a perfect arch through the air, and he stared deeply at the ladder that Kizuna was steadily climbing, his eyes combing through the rungs and bolts with terrifying coldness, expression almost bored.

The coin was still suspended in the air, glinting in the moonlight.

The man made no move to climb, and instead swept his trench coat aside, revealing the full extent of his Enforcers’ uniform. It was a deep navy, and the snaps of his double-breasted dress coat were chipped, while his well-worn trousers were stuffed into his muddy black boots.

On his breast lapel was a metal badge. Kizuna knew without looking that it spelled out: Ground Enforcer Chet Lahn.

Nestled by his hip was his Militia-issued pistol, which he pulled out in record time. He blinked one eye closed as he aimed up at Kizuna, a few wayward strands of his slicked ash-juniper hair draped across his forehead.

Kizuna scrambled up the few remaining rungs, his breath catching in his throat as his right heel slipped, his dress shoes clanging pathetically atop the metal bars as he attempted to regain his footing, his weight carried only by his palms, which were growing sweatier and sweatier by the second.

Just as his toe finally found purchase, and he hauled himself up to the last few bars, his fingers grazing at the asphalt rooftop, Chet’s pistol shouted a thunderous bang, and Kizuna flinched as he scurried towards the last rung, ready for a bullet to be embedded in his leg.

Instead, the ladder gave a heave and a creak, the metal screeching.

Kizuna could smell gunpowder, deflagrating into his nose from where the bullet had lodged itself into one of the ladder’s bolts. It was where the old thing was already rusting, and one shot from a raging gun was enough to lose all support; and the ladder began to topple downwards.

Limit Lock. Kizuna was aware that the man called it that. It was his Path, honed precisely by the Wўtai Citizen's Militia and their Cultivation sects. Even a low-level Enforcer like him was allowed such privileges.

“You can try to run, but my Path will allow me to find any physical weakness,” Chet called out in a rough slur. “And even if it means taking this whole building down— I will get you.”

As if emphasizing his words, Chet caught the coin that came pummeling down at him with a swipe of his hand.

Playing with that coin was the Limit Lock’s Somatic Art. Without it the man wouldn't be able to perform his Cultivational abilities at all.

If Kizuna were any closer, he'd try to kick it out of the man's grip. But even trying to get closer right now would surely lead to his death—

Kizuna felt the ladder creak even further, each bolt dislodging themselves from the masonry wall. The entire ladder was leaning to the left, with him along with it. His grip on the rooftop was slipping, his weight cartered off by the slanting ladder.

Gravity pulled down on him, and Kizuna could see the pavement quickly approaching his vision. A fall from this height would surely kill him.

Death did not worry him. It was what came afterwards.

The grey of the sidewalk was rushing closer and closer, and Kizuna whipped his head backwards to face the rapidly departing rooftop, so he steadied his footing, straightened his back— and he jumped.

His palms slapped against the edge of the rooftop, rough enough for his palms to have surely been scratched red. His shoes slipped atop the wall, giving him no purchase. Desperately, he kicked them off, droplets of sweat dappling onto the roof as he finally hefted his head over the corner.

He could hear the Enforcer cocking his gun again, and he distantly hoped his shoes would land on the bastard’s head.

Kizuna rolled onto the roof with a heaving chest, laying flat on the surface for a moment, just to gauge whether the man would start shooting. He jolted when he heard the ladder crash onto the sidewalk, the sound rattling down the rest of the Red Light District.

Still, there was no doubt that any passers-by would carry on with their night. Chet had revealed his uniform for all to see, and nobody was willing to trifle with governmental business if they could help it.

Kizuna listened closely, hoping to hear Chet click the safety of his pistol back on. Instead, he heard shuffling, and weighty footfalls. With a furrowed brow, he slowly brought himself to his elbows, still careful to keep his head from being visible over the roof’s edge.

Without warning, two hands slammed down in front of his gaze, and Kizuna couldn’t even hide his shocked shriek. He peered down over the edge, forcing himself to his feet as the two hands strengthened their grip, and two arms slid onto the roof, and soon enough, a face— the Enforcer’s.

He had scaled the whole damn wall.

Kizuna turned on his heel and bolted across the roof, scouting the wooden fire escape door on the other side of the roof.

He kept running even when he heard another gunshot, and this time it struck the metal knob of the door he had just been running towards. The bullet ricocheted off it with a twang, burrowing into an adjacent building’s wall.

Not a thought passed Kizuna’s mind when he at last reached the door, before his hand clasped around it, and the heat from the raging bullet spread from the warped metal to his palm in a single scalding nip.

If he were any other, he would have been sat clutching at his wrist and howling; but he at least had his Beast’s Blessing to thank as he simply bit his lip at the pain, and fought against the heat and tried twisting the door’s handle either way.

It was to no avail. The mechanism had been knocked and misaligned from the shot, and now the whole damn door wouldn’t budge.

Kizuna grunted as he stepped back, and rammed his shoulder into the door. It shook, but its hinges remained solid. He retracted any sense of gratitude he may have felt for the Beast’s Blessing. He could do with at least a bolster to his strength.

As he twisted his shoulder away, ready for another strike, two burly arms curled around his neck, hoisting Kizuna up into a choke-hold.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the Enforcer muttered as Kizuna writhed in his grip, the man responding by lugging him even higher, until Kizuna’s feet could only curl around the man’s knees to keep himself from suffocating. Chet tightened his hold as he said, “Tiny thing, aren’t you?”

“Let go!” Kizuna managed to choke out, his throat growing tight from the man’s endless assault. His pulse was racing. Blood curdling hot and boiling beneath his skin. And his vision was blackening, his body preparing for the embrace of his Beast— for death itself.

A desperate roar tore from Kizuna’s lungs, his hands lunging for whatever they could. He ripped his fingernails across the Enforcer’s gaudy vambraces, kicked at the man’s legs with his own, and tried reaching for the man’s face, to scratch and pull.

All the air was ripped from him as Kizuna was tossed to the ground, Chet staring down at him as he pressed both hands to his throat and squeezed.

“D’you have your fun, Shen?” Chet leaned down to bellow at him, fat globs of spit landing on Kizuna’s gauze-wrapped face. The clasp on his throat grew tighter, Kizuna’s tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth, unable to even speak. “After all these years I can finally kill you with my own two hands.”

“—not…” Kizuna managed, his teeth clacking together.

“Shut up. If you think I’ll kill you here, you’re sorely mistaken, you sick fuck.” Chet growled, pulling out his pistol again while still keeping his other hand on Kizuna’s neck, pointing the tip to the boy’s shin. “I’ll take it nice and slow. Just like what you did to those hostages— to my brother.”

The man had spat out that last word like it pained him, his face crumbling apart for a mere moment. The scene made Kizuna’s own heart wrench, and he shook his head. Beneath Chet’s clasp, all he could do was a vague sway of the flyaway bangs that graced his face.

Kizuna eyed the Enforcer's hand as he cocked his pistol. “…Sh-Shen— I’m…”

“What’s that?” Chet’s tone made this seem rhetorical, and he didn’t loosen his hold to allow Kizuna to speak. He was so close that Kizuna could smell the hints of cigarettes and liquor on his breath.

Kizuna couldn’t speak. Not any longer. His life was being squeezed out of him, and he was being kept alive only so that Chet could drill his body full of bulletholes and perhaps snap an arm or two.

Without Sunren to collect the xi and siphon it through his body to keep him from snapping, it was obvious what would happen. Himself, trapped in a state of madness— forever.

Destroying everything in his path until his body gave out and he died. The runner’s den would be mere rubble. There would be the stench of blood in the air, bones and skin mangled beneath his feet.

And there, Chet would lay.

The thought made him shudder, a tremendous ache running through his spine and settling into his gut, like the taste of bitter vodka.

A small hiccup escaped his clamped mouth, before a sob came.

And then, before Kizuna knew it, fat tears were running down his cheeks, moistening even the Enforcer’s maroon gloves.

Through bleary eyes, Kizuna could just about make out Chet’s face.

His brows were drawn up to his forehead, mouth slackened in shock.

Finally, it seemed like the hand around Kizuna’s throat had loosened.

“I-I—” Kizuna tried to say, gulping in mouthfuls of air. His throat burned, the skin and gauze wet with sweat and fallen tears. “…n-not. I’m not…”

He was cursing himself for being unable to speak properly. Who knew if Chet would grow impatient with him, return to his senses, and finally blow his leg to bits.

But none of that happened. Instead, the Enforcer sat back on top of him, staring down at Kizuna as if he were the most troubling puzzle he had even come across.

Kizuna swallowed, and stared straight at Chet as he yelled, “I… am not Shen.”