The rough hemp of his torn robe scraped against the cold iron plate strapped to his chest. Every breath sent a sharp sting through him.
Li Feng walked with his head down along the muddy path at the edge of the market, where sewage overflowed and pooled. He avoided the crowd, keeping close to the walls, moving lightly as if afraid of being noticed.
The broken dagger pressed against his chest. Its weight reminded him of the stiff body in the alley and the warm blood that had coated his hand.
His stomach twisted with hunger. As he passed a stall selling roasted flatbreads, the smell of burnt dough and cheap grease hit his nose like a blow.
The stall owner was a thin old man, wiping a greasy board with a filthy rag. Several flatbreads sizzled on the grill, steam rising. Li Feng slowed without meaning to, his eyes fixed on them.
The three copper coins were gone.
His hand brushed his chest, feeling the cold iron through his rags. Steal?
The thought barely formed before he crushed it. The old man looked weak, but his dull eyes were sharp and alert. Something bulky sat under his clothes, probably a club and a heavy cleaver lay beside the board.
Li Feng swallowed and forced himself to look away. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, using the pain to push down the hunger.
No.
Not now.
He needed to live longer. Long enough to make this piece of iron truly worth it.
Like a frightened stray, he quickened his pace and slipped into a narrow, dark alley that stank of urine and rot.
The alley was dim even in daylight. Rotten eaves blocked the sun. The walls were covered in old notices, crude markings, and dark stains. Mud and filth squelched underfoot.
A muffled sob came from deeper inside, followed by angry shouting.
Li Feng stopped.
He pressed into a recessed corner and peered out through a tear in his robe.
Ahead, three men blocked the alley. Two wore the Black Tiger Gang's dirty grey jackets. One was short and thick, holding a heavy club. The other was tall and thin, yelling at someone cowering in the corner.
It was a child, no older than twelve. Thin, filthy, clutching a cloth bundle to his chest as if it were his life.
"Where's this month's protection money?" the tall man shouted, kicking the wall beside him.
"My mother is sick," the child sobbed. "The money went to medicine…"
"Medicine?" the short man laughed. "That old hag should've died a long time already.." He raised his club. "Hand it over, or I smash your junk."
"No!" The child screamed. "It's my mother's jacket! Please! give me a few days. I'll work at the docks—"
"Enough!" The tall man snapped, reaching for the bundle.
The child fought back desperately.
"Are you not afraid of death!" the short man roared, swinging his club down.
Li Feng's heart tightened.
The falling club lined up with an old memory, his father being kicked to the ground. Something cold inside him cracked open. His hand closed around the dagger beneath his rags.
Then a calm voice cut through the alley.
"That's enough."
The club froze in midair.
A large man stood at the alley entrance, blocking the light. His jacket was cleaner than the others. Scars crossed his chest, and a long scar ran from his temple to his mouth.
The two henchmen stiffened at once.
Scarface looked over the alley with cold eyes, then spoke flatly. "Leave the stuff. Get out."
The child trembled, staring at the scar. Someone shouted at him to move. He fled down the alley, sobbing, the bundle slipping from his hands into the mud.
The short man bent to grab it.
"Wait."
Scarface's gaze shifted, not to the bundle, but to the shadows.
Directly to Li Feng.
Li Feng's blood turned cold. He held his breath, gripping the dagger so hard his hand shook.
For three long breaths, Scarface stared.
Then he looked away.
"Take it," he said. "Next street."
The men hurried off.
When Scarface finally left, Li Feng slid down the wall, gasping for air. Sweat soaked his back. Those few seconds had terrified him more than killing the old beggar.
Scarface's eyes had stripped him naked.
Li Feng looked at his bleeding palm, then at the abandoned bundle in the mud. The way fear had crushed the henchmen burned into his mind.
That's what he wanted.
Not hiding, or clutching a broken knife like his life depended on it.
To survive, crawling wasn't enough.
Li Feng lifted his eyes toward the alley entrance. The dagger was still cold against his chest, but something else stirred inside him.
No matter the what, he would find Scarface again.