The city at night was a different beast.
By day, the slums were loud, chaotic, filthy but they still pretended to be a place of living. By night, the pretenses fell away. The alleys grew teeth. Shadows moved where there should have been none. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood, the bitter smoke of cheap opium, and the salt of the nearby river.
Lin Xuan walked beside Bao Liang, letting him chatter. Bao spoke of petty rivalries, of drunken brawls, of women whose names Lin Xuan no longer remembered. He gave nothing in return.
In his first life, he would have been trying to impress Bao. Now, he kept his eyes ahead and his steps steady, mapping every corner they passed. Every route was a potential escape or ambush ground. Every doorway was either an entry or an exit.
He counted how many faces watched them from the shadows, six men, all pretending not to be part of any gang. They would sell them out to the highest bidder before sunrise.
They turned down a narrow lane, its walls leaning inward as though conspiring to swallow them whole. At the end stood a squat brick building with no windows, only a single heavy door.
Bao knocked in a rhythm — three short, one long, two short.
The slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of eyes.
"Bao," the guard grunted. "Who's the pup?"
"New blood," Bao said. "Got something Old Jin will want to hear."
The guard's eyes slid to Lin Xuan, lingering for a moment. His gaze wasn't just suspicious—it was calculating. Weighing his worth.
Finally, the slot slammed shut, and the door creaked open.
***
Inside, the air was thick with the stink of sweat, smoke, and liquor. The main room was lit by a scattering of oil lamps, their light barely reaching the corners where shadowed figures sat hunched over dice games and low conversations.
Lin Xuan followed Bao through, ignoring the curious and unfriendly looks thrown his way.
At the back, a low table sat in its own pool of lamplight. Behind it lounged a man who seemed carved from old wood—wiry, weathered, and sharp-eyed. His hair was mostly grey, tied back with a strip of cloth. A thin scar ran from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth, pulling one side of his face into a permanent half-smirk.
Old Jin.
In his first life, Lin Xuan had met him months later, after proving himself with petty jobs. By then, Old Jin had already decided he was a disposable pawn.
This time, he would change that first impression.
Bao bowed slightly—not out of respect, but out of habit. "Boss, this is Lin Xuan. Says he's got word on a spice shipment."
"You thought I'd be interested in the ramblings of some alley rat?" Old Jin's voice was dry, but his gaze was locked on Lin Xuan, testing.
Lin Xuan didn't bow. Instead, he stepped forward until the lamplight caught his face. He made sure his expression was calm, his tone steady.
"I don't deal in rumors," he said. "The shipment exists. I can tell you when it's coming, where it's passing, and how to take it without alerting the city watch."
The table between them was short, but the space felt vast. Men like Old Jin respected confidence—but they killed arrogance. The line between the two was thinner than a hair.
Old Jin's smirk twitched slightly. "You're very certain of yourself, boy. If you're lying, I'll have your tongue."
"If I'm lying," Lin Xuan said evenly, "you won't have to take it. I'll cut it out myself before you can."
A quiet laugh came from somewhere in the room.
Old Jin's eyes didn't leave his. "Bao," he said finally, "pour the boy a drink. Let's hear what he has to say."
***
They spoke for the better part of an hour.
Lin Xuan gave Old Jin nothing concrete—only enough to spark interest. He named streets the shipment would supposedly pass, dropped the names of merchants he knew would be in the city tomorrow, and hinted at his sources without explaining them.
The truth was, he knew far more than he was saying. But not about this fake shipment—he knew the gang's operations, their rivals' weaknesses, and which of Old Jin's lieutenants were planning to betray him within the next three years.
That knowledge was his real blade, and he would not draw it too soon.
When the talk ended, Old Jin leaned back, studying him. "You've got a sharp tongue," he said. "Sharp things are useful—until they cut the wrong hand."
"I don't cut without a reason," Lin Xuan replied.
Old Jin's smirk deepened just slightly. "Good. Bao, get him set up with a cot in the back. Let's see if the boy bleeds Red Fang."
***
The cot they gave him was little more than a straw mat in a damp corner, but he'd slept in worse.
Lying there, Lin Xuan replayed every word, every glance, every shift in tone from Old Jin. The spice shipment lie had bought him three things:
- A place inside the gang sooner than in his first life
- A thread of curiosity in Old Jin's mind
- The first step toward making himself indispensable
Tomorrow, he would "discover" that the shipment had been moved unexpectedly—a perfect excuse for the gang to investigate without blaming him for failure. In the meantime, he'd listen, observe, and start mapping the web of relationships here.
The first rule of survival in the murim underworld: *Never be the strongest. Never be the weakest. Be the one holding the knife and the map*.
***
As the hideout settled into the rhythms of sleep—snores, coughs, the occasional groan of settling wood—Lin Xuan lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.
His mind worked through the layers of the game ahead, each thought sharp and measured.
Step one: Gain Old Jin's trust—not through loyalty, but through value. Feed him just enough truth to keep him curious. Information was currency in this world, and he would make himself the richest broker in the slums.
Step two: Learn the Red Fang's operations, routes, and rivalries. Map every gang's territory from memory and current observation. He already knew some of it from his first life, but twenty years had passed—details had shifted, alliances had crumbled, new threats had risen.
Step three: Identify the future threats—the gangs and sects that would rise in the next decade—and begin undermining them now, before they ever knew his name. The Iron Hand School, the Black Sand Guild, the Azure Fang Sect's internal war between Elder Jian and Elder Xu—all of it was coming. And this time, he would be the one pulling the strings.
It would take years.
But he had years.
The boy who had once scrambled for scraps was gone. The man who had died in the snow now wore his skin.
And the world would never see him coming.
***
Outside, the wind rattled the shutters. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled—a thin, lonely sound that the city swallowed without care.
Lin Xuan closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. It never did, not since his rebirth. His mind was too sharp, too aware of every creak of the floorboards, every shift of weight in the rooms around him.
Tomorrow, the game would continue. Bao would likely bring news of the "vanished" shipment. Old Jin would test him again. And he would pass that test, just as he'd passed this one.
Because failure was no longer an option.
In his first life, failure had meant losing an eye, losing allies, losing everything until there was nothing left but betrayal and snow.
In this life, failure would mean death—permanent, final, without the miracle of rebirth to save him.
So he would not fail.
He would move like water—soft when needed, relentless when necessary. He would smile at his enemies while sharpening knives in the dark. He would build trust only to weaponize it later.
This was the path he had chosen.
And there would be no turning back.