The street lay hushed like glass at dawn, and three figures moved through it without hurry. A child led the way like a candle in fog. Behind him, a teen in a black trench coat flowed like a raven’s wing. Beside them, an olive‑green‑haired girl in special‑ops gear walked with a sniper rifle riding her spine like a sleeping serpent.
Unease pricked Lin Yumo like cold rain. She hated detours; a clean win would polish her record like fresh jade. People once looked down on her, and she burned to blaze now. But she was with the young master, and his word was iron. She tilted her mouth, then quickened her steps to shadow Lin Fan.
“Kiddo, how much longer?” Lin Fan slowed, voice light as drifting dust. “Turn that corner and we’re there. One, two minutes,” the boy said, confused, like a stray dog glancing back.
They turned into a narrow alley that funneled them like a riverbed. At the end sat a bricked‑off lot, a dead pool of concrete.
A chill tugged Lin Yumo’s spine like a wet string. “Young Master…”
“I know.” Lin Fan turned, and the alley mouth had already dammed shut with bodies.
A booming voice rolled from a little shack like a drumbeat. A burly man stepped out, an assault rifle slung like a metal fang.
“The food you promised?” The boy glanced back at Lin Fan and Lin Yumo, eyes clear as dry stone, regretless. To him they were crates, not people. A week had twisted this city like warped wood.
“Here. Now beat it.” Someone behind tossed a blue package like a fish. The boy snatched it and slipped away like a rat through weeds.
“What’s the point of luring us here?” Lin Fan spoke as if to empty air, his tone smooth as still water.
The brute barked a laugh, gravel thick. “Cocky little punk, acting tough at the end. You’re from outside, right? We wait for outsiders. We own the cams in this sector, every eye like a snare. The moment you hit the street, we had you. Dragging you here was just insurance.”
More men drifted in with pistols, muzzles like black mouths. “That chick’s real pretty. Later the boys can—”
Bang! The Desert Eagle cracked like thunder under a storm roof. The brute’s head burst open like a melon, red and white splashing the ground. His QBZ‑95 clacked to the concrete like a dropped bone.
Everyone froze, shock stiff as ice. Weren’t villains supposed to finish their lines? Bang! Another pistolman’s skull flowered open, wet petals in the dust. In the milling crowd, the olive‑green‑haired girl already had her Desert Eagle leveled, the black muzzle breathing a thin ribbon of smoke.
“Kill them! Drop them all!” Panic lit the pack like brushfire. Safeties clicked off, and gunfire spat like hail.
Thud‑thud. A wooden wall surged up like a sprung grove, bark raw and sappy, catching the storm of bullets. Inside that ring, Lin Fan frowned, his gaze a cool blade. “Yumo, I wanted him alive for questions. You blew my lead to mist.”
“Sorry… Young Master.” Shame tightened her chest like a knot. “I couldn’t swallow what he said.” She fired again, and another head snapped back like a cut stem.
“Forget it. Next time, keep an eye out. First outings trip, it’s normal.” He shook his head, a tired breeze through leaves. Then his form softened into element, green light pooling in his palm like a will‑o’‑the‑wisp. He slapped the ground. “Forest’s Might, draw wood into a prison!”
Vines whipped up like serpents, coiling legs and throats. Sap‑dark trunks creaked as they wrapped bodies whole, a living coffin tightening by his will. One thought, and the lot would pulp like fruit in a press.
“Talk. Where’s your boss?” He ignored the machete‑wavers like weeds and strode to the last man with a gun, voice cold as shade.
“You… you’re ability users!” Terror climbed the man’s face like frost. “My patience is thin,” Lin Fan said, hand closing like a vice. The vines squeezed; skin bloomed blue‑black like bruised plums. “I don’t know! We were just sent to hit newcomers. That’s all I know!”
“Young Master, do we finish them?” Lin Yumo stood at his side, crimson pupils cool as winter embers, watching the bound men thrash like netted fish.
“Let it go. Leaving them here works the same.” He turned, voice dusting off the scene. “Killing just dirties your hands.” Lin Yumo thumbed rounds into the Desert Eagle, brass chiming like rain, then followed him out of the alley.
Behind them remained only a knot of men wrapped in wood, struggling as the vines creaked like old ropes.
—
In a basement bunker, the air hummed like a sleeping machine. Hoshina hovered in human form, half‑reclined in midair, fingers dancing over a blossoming virtual screen like fireflies.
Worry dimmed her tone like a cloud over the moon. “Alán, Xiaoxue seems to be in trouble.”
Bloo looked up, puzzled, eyes calm as still ponds. “?”
“The smart chip I planted in her got damaged,” Hoshina said, voice tight as drawn wire. “The data shows her heart demon flared.”
“If that’s true,” Bloo answered, words clipped like cut rope, “and Xiaoxue fell into the Ouyang Clan’s hands, then the potion and us get exposed.”
“Mm. It looks that way.” She nodded, thoughts spinning like gears. “But I still need a body built first.” A blink, and new feeds rippled like ripples on ink. “Looks like Lin Fan’s people pulled Xiaoxue out. I tracked their trail.”
“Good. I’m heading out to scavenge,” Bloo said, voice steady as stone.
“Be careful on the road, Alán,” Hoshina said, soft as a lantern in rain.
