Richard stared at the empty Xin Xu Yuan and rubbed his temples.
He should've known. Ke's son was never going to stay put and hide when danger came—he was bound to run around like an idiot.
The plan had been solid. He'd discussed it thoroughly with old man Lovie: as long as Ke's child stayed quietly inside Xin Xu Yuan, at least in the short term, no one would come knocking.
And yet the moment Richard looked away, the kid vanished.
Pressing a hand to his forehead, Richard let out a bitter, helpless sigh.
"You really are just like him, Ke."
After searching for ages, Richard found Ke Ming's suitcase near an abandoned warehouse at a street corner. The place looked like a rat den.
Their security was actually pretty tight—impressively so for rats with no organization or discipline. A young lookout stood guard outside, clumsily imitating a Zwei Association Fixer, holding a two-handed sword whose hilt took up half the blade.
But to Richard—once directly under the Seven Association—it was laughable. Rats were chronically malnourished; they could barely lift a weapon.
He dropped the guard easily, picked up the two-handed sword, and weighed it in his hand.
Light as a toy. For a second he'd thought these idiots might actually have ties to Zwei—but no, it was just a cheap prop with a fancy silhouette.
Richard removed his bowler hat, offered a faint polite bow—
and cut off the unlucky bastard's head.
…
Ke Ming stared wide-eyed at the middle-aged Fixer in a suit.
He'd seen this tie-wearing customer at Xin Xu Yuan before.
More than once. Every time, he ordered only rice.
There were plenty like that. Not everyone could stomach Xin Xu Yuan's ingredients.
There'd even been a red-haired woman once—after learning what the ingredients really were, she'd nearly torn the signboard down. If the Head Chef's name hadn't been so intimidating, Ke Ming wouldn't have been able to bluff his way through.
Even in Alley Twenty-Three there are people with no appreciation for fine cuisine—so of course outsiders can't be forced to understand.
That was Ke Ming's logic, anyway.
In short: this guy, calling himself Richard, claimed he was a friend of Ke Ming's father.
And now he was walking straight up, telling Ke Ming to "recognize family."
Ke Ming did remember this gentlemanly, British-styled Fixer—but only vaguely.
And the usual "you were too young to remember what happened when you were one or two" routine wouldn't work on him.
His body was only seven or eight years old, but inside was the soul of a burned-out office worker in his twenties.
Add the two lifetimes together and he was basically a thirty-something middle-aged man.
Still… with the kind of strength this suited Fixer had, he didn't need to lie to win Ke Ming's trust.
The small mountain of rat heads outside was persuasive enough.
Act obedient. Get on his good side first.
Ke Ming nodded sweetly, putting on a mask of innocent naivety…
But Richard was getting a headache.
This kid opened his mouth and every other sentence was "Head Chef, Head Chef, Head Chef." Either he was deliberately playing dumb—or he'd been brainwashed by something absurd.
The Seven Association had that kind of tech.
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'm Richard. An intelligence operative from the Stellar Observatory Office, under Section Six." He paused, shaking his head with weary resignation. "You probably don't understand what that means. But I'm not your enemy. I knew your father—Ke."
He pointed at the coat Ke Ming had folded and placed neatly on the table.
"He saved my life more than once."
The little boy—barely over a meter tall—nodded stiffly, straightening his back with comical seriousness.
"Ke Ming. Employee of Xin Xu Yuan. You came here for—"
That carefree, sharp-tongued rogue could produce a kid like this?
Same high bridge of the nose. Same deep-set eyes.
But the brat was slick. Tight-lipped.
Richard was almost… relieved. At least Ke's child wouldn't get played to death by Wings schemes and dirty tricks so easily.
He had potential.
"Ke Ming… sir. I'll call you that for now. My assignment is to protect you."
Protect him?
Now?
After his parents were dead, after he'd lost an arm, after the Head Chef was dead, after he'd barely escaped?
Why didn't you come sooner?
Rage surged up his spine. His heart pounded, blood roaring through his veins.
Ke Ming rarely got angry.
He'd felt anger. Hatred. But there had never been anywhere to put it—no outlet. If he tried to vent, all he'd do was slide into the dead end of self-pity.
He was too weak. Too powerless. There was nothing he could do.
He clenched his fists and forced himself to breathe.
…Until he knew whether this man was friend or foe, he couldn't lose control.
Richard seemed to notice something off. He sighed.
"About Ke… I'm sorry. We… I didn't think it would come to this. I didn't think it would involve the Wings."
Richard stood abruptly and straightened his tie.
"The one who should've died was me—not Ke."
Sincere.
But Ke Ming was furious.
Richard's words hammered into the fragile dam holding Ke Ming together. The floodgates—already on the verge of collapse—burst open, and everything spilled out.
He could still see that night: the sky on fire, the towering blaze, that easygoing figure walking away without hesitation.
He could also remember—deep in his mind—the warmth of ordinary days: his parents, their small moments together, and the time with the Head Chef that wasn't good, but was still quiet.
And now they were all dead.
Dead for real.
…
What could Ke Ming do?
…
Go die with them?
…
If he provoked the man in front of him, could he just be done with everything?
In a hell like the City, death was a kind of release.
"Then get the hell down there and apologize to them yourself!"
"At the critical moment, your whole pack of 'friends' ran—where are they?!"
"Not one of them came?"
"Do you even know how he died—alone, he was alone!"
"Alone against those things—those monsters—black as a tide!"
"You're all damn cowards! Trash!"
"Trash!"
Ke Ming's face flushed red. His pupils constricted, his eyes bloodshot. Snot and tears poured out, smearing together.
What started as an act—fake obedience—twisted into raw, genuine collapse.
He cursed. He cried. And in the end, every sound turned into choking sobs.
Richard opened his mouth, at a loss. He lifted his head in panic—
and instinctively pulled Ke Ming into a hug.
Ke Ming shuddered and tried to wrench free.
He raised his hand, swung his fist, struck hard—landing solidly on Richard's thin shoulder.
Raise. Swing. Raise. Swing.
But the prosthetic-powered blows that should've crushed an ordinary adult… felt, in this moment, like a child's powerless tantrum.
He threw one last soft punch, then let his hand fall—resting on Richard's shoulder.
....
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