VOLUME 3: THE KINGMAKER

  The cycles following District Pik’s royal regicide were marked by a quiet the district had not known in living memory. It was not peace, nor relief, but something heavier. A breath held. Even after the sudden death of Mingchi’s father, Lord Gaochi, and through the worst famines and tragedies that followed, Pik had always been loud in its suffering. Hunger shouted demands for change. Anger sang from the streets. But this silence was different.

  Pik’s graffiti stained walls crying out for the birth of Chin Xiao De, the sudden hope Mingchi gave his people, it was violently rubbed out. But the Kingmakers and the Emperor knew one truth: the real challenge of a regicide wasn’t the assassination of the lord. It was what came after: sealing the power vacuum with a loyal subject, and leaving the people with no space to question what followed.

  For District Pik, its next ruler had been chosen long before the regicide itself was ever planned.

  Lord Fa-Ren, newly crowned, had never expected to rule the district of his birth. That had little to do with the fact that his only remaining tie to Pik was an empty manor he spent his childhood in. It had more to do with the simple fact that Fa-Ren had never been a political man.

  He had been sixteen when he founded his first business with a hefty loan from his father. Eighteen when he made his first million. By the time he relocated to the Northern district of Taiku Xhing, living among financiers and corporate magnates, he had already branded himself as a money-maker before anything else. The daily lives of Kowlooni citizens had always come second, if they had come at all.

  Yet as Fa-Ren knelt before his Kuishi enforcers, accepting the mantle of lordship in a discreet chamber somewhere within Pik’s outskirts, with five Kingmakers standing guard, the reason for Emperor Puyin’s choice became clear to him.

  For three annui-cycles, Fa-Ren had funnelled vast sums of Hongs into the Zhaisheng revival. Not out of reverence for the Emperor’s mythical golden age, nor the supposed benefits he’d have received from it, he donated because favour was an investment. Imperial favour meant dynasty backing, legal protection, emergency bailouts, and quiet intervention when one of his thirty-four companies threatened collapse. In Kowloon’s ruthless, multi-corporational ecosystem, these were the necessities for survival.

  Becoming Lord of an entire district, however, surpassed even his most ambitious calculations.

  Fa-Ren was, at heart, a businessman. To him, a district’s economy was simply a business scaled up to its most brutal form. Money moved everything. People followed it. Order bent around it. Pik might have been culturally distant to him now, but culture did not balance ledgers or stabilise markets. Hongs did.

  And Fa-Ren had more than enough to prove to Kowloon that all District Pik needed to stand beside the wealthy districts of the North and West was not faith in the Light, pride in culture, or bold rebellion. Just ruthless business management.

  When Emperor Puyin held up Mingchi’s charred hand before the full imperial assembly, every Lord and Lady of Kowloon across its sixty-six districts watched in stunned silence either live or through their hologram livestreams. The scratched silver ring still caught the light through the large screen. Some felt sorrow, others thought this was the only way Mingchi’s secessionist campaign could end. Puyin made no effort to soften the fact that this sudden execution was a warning, threatening the same fate for any who dared speak of treachery as Mingchi had. All knew the threat was especially pointed towards the single missing seat in the assembly: Warlord Xinjian, leader of Ho Man Ting, the district that had kidnapped Yutai and shut down its borders. The only other district that was on the brink of secession.

  Only then did he reveal his choice for Pik’s new lord: Fa-Ren, a notorious northern businessman, and the news was equally surprising when the assembly learned he was of Eastern descent.

  The stunned reactions in the meeting barely outlasted the meeting itself. Word travelled fast, and it did not take long to reach the Yang leadership. They had a good idea about how Fa-Ren might try to secure Pik’s loyalty. He was not a man who earned trust. He bought it. That had always been his instinct.

  The only question was, how much did their people’s loyalty cost?

  On the wide terminal screen, Boquin watched a Pik labourer in the backdrop of a construction site, his hammer moving in exaggerated slow motion. The man’s skin looked unnaturally smooth, airbrushed clean of grime, his only sign of hardship a sheen of artificial sweat. He did not even look Eastern. Too tall. Hair too wavy. Just a thin actor cast to fit whatever stereotype the producers thought passed for an Easterner.

  The labourer leaned heavily on his oversized hammer and rubbed his stomach.

  ‘Is the noise of your body drowning out your duty to your district?’ a formal, soothing, yet unnervingly flat feminine voice intoned.

  The worker collapsed into a melodramatic fetal curl and nodded.

  ‘Hunger, fatigue. Age-old biological burdens. They slow your movements, your thoughts. They dim the life the Light gave us.’

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Boquin thought.

  Murmurs rippled through the room. He glanced to his right at Zifuan, seated among the other Yangs, who was already shaking his head. Zifuan met Boquin’s eyes and let out a quiet chuckle. Boquin rolled his eyes back at him in a shared You seeing this? look.

  Gan stood stiff beside the screen, hands planted on his hips. His dark Yang robe sat heavy on his broad frame, the hood pushed back to reveal carefully kept hair threaded with grey and the faint smear of black smudged around his eyes. He did not react. His gaze remained locked on the advert, unblinking.

  ‘Food may be scarce,’ the narrator continued. ‘It is not anyone’s decision to miss their next meal. But letting hunger take control? Lord Fa-Ren has turned that into a choice we can make.’

  Boquin frowned as the murmurs died away. The camera pulled back. The construction site dissolved into a stark white backdrop.

  A man in a business suit, hat and briefcase stepped into frame, wearing a smile that was far too bright. He crouched beside the labourer, helped him to his feet, and extended an open palm. Something rested in it.

  ‘Introducing the Vigour Neuro-Patch,’ the narrator announced. ‘The latest product of Emperor Puyin’s Zhaisheng. A pinnacle of bio-engineering, redefining the modern Pik citizen’s standard of living. Autonomy. The freedom to choose when to feel pain, and when not to.’

  ‘Here you go, young man,’ the man in the suit said, guiding the labourer into a seated position. His voice was gentle, rehearsed. ‘Allow us to help you.’

  The camera lingered on his smile, wide and superficial. He lifted the labourer’s thin shirt and gently pressed his palm flat against the man’s upper abdomen. When he withdrew his hand, a small, dark rectangle clung to the skin. Brushed copper circuits traced clean geometric lines across its surface. Micro-needles anchored it in place. The device pulsed a soft green light.

  At its centre, a tiny screen flickered to life. A pixelated graphic of meat and water floated within it.

  What the fuck are we looking at? Boquin thought.

  The image cut to a microscopic CGI sequence. Microneedles pierced the epidermis without drawing blood, releasing glowing blue neural inhibitors that surged towards a stylised nervous system in the man’s gut.

  ‘Forget the hassle of waiting for food,’ the smooth feminine voice continued. ‘Our proprietary neuro-peptides bypass natural hormones and speaks directly to the mind. Silence the distraction of appetite. Neutralise the sensation of strain.’

  The labourer stood up against the white background. His posture sharpened. Then he did a backflip out of nowhere before shaking the businessman’s hand with a wide grin.

  To Boquin’s left, a woman leaned closer and whispered, ‘Bo, this is ungodly.’

  ‘I know, Liqui,’ he muttered back. ‘I can’t believe this is real.’

  The scene shifted again. The labourer now stood upright amid the construction site and gripped the massive hammer with one hand. Flipping it in the air, he caught the hammer and broke into an awkward dance as upbeat West Kowlooni music flooded the background.

  Above his head, a floating bowl of rice appeared, hovering like a thought made visible. Then it shattered into dust.

  Text scrolled into the centre of the screen.

  GUARANTEED BIO-COMPATIBILITY.

  100% PAIN MITIGATION.

  MAXIMUM ENERGY OUTPUT.

  RECEIVE YOUR FREE VIGOUR PATCH TODAY.

  A GIFT FROM THE FA-REN ADMINISTRATION.

  TO YOU.

  Below it sat the corporate seal of Fa-Ren’s conglomerate, newly rebranded with the flag of District Pik.

  The cheerful synth track cut off mid-note with a violent crack of static as the terminal was abruptly shut down.

  Angry voices broke out across the room as the dark-robed Yangs erupted at once. Gan did not raise his voice, but the disappointment across his face was sharper than any shout.

  ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘This is as important as it is perverted.’

  The room slowly settled.

  ‘Fa-Ren was crowned Lord of Pik late last cycle. And this,’ he added, gesturing towards the darkened terminal, ‘is his first move.’

  ‘We can’t let this abomination flood our streets,’ a Yang called from the back.

  Gan pointed at him. ‘You’re right. We won’t.’ He turned, addressing all thirty or so figures in the chamber, the entirety of Pik’s Yang cell. ‘I’ve already spoken with leaders from the other cells. This is an obscenity. It will not end well for our district. Worse, it might give Fa-Ren exactly what he needs: support from the people. With Mingchi gone, we must now work towards installing a leader we can deal with. One who serves Pik, not the dynasty. Just as the Yangs of Ho Man Ting did. Fa-Ren is a well-known crony to Puyin.’

  Boquin knew precisely who Gan meant by the ‘other cells’.

  Yangs across South and Central Kowloon. Culprits of the Yau bombings. The single event that scarred our cause beyond repair.

  ‘As I said earlier, the advertisement you just saw goes live tomorrow. A few cycles after that, distribution of the patches will begin. Fa-Ren claims they’re free, but there’s a condition: anyone who takes one is required to return to work from the next cycle.’

  He paused.

  ‘We’re worried it will work. People are desperate to escape hunger. They may accept starving to death as long as they can’t feel it.’

  ‘And when does he plan to distribute real food?’ Liqui shouted from beside Boquin.

  ‘We don’t know what his long-term plans are for the famine. Just this sick, temporary fix. But we won’t let it happen. I’ve located a major cache where the patches are being held before distribution. Security is tight. Fa-Ren has hired mercenaries from West Kowloon to guard the storerooms. They’re armed to the teeth, every one of them built like a southerner. Not the barebones Kuishi we’re used to.’ He looked around the room. ‘There’s very little room for us to act alone.’

  ‘So how do we strike the storeroom?’ Boquin asked.

  Gan looked straight at him. ‘The way we always do. We find allies who can do what we cannot.’ He scanned the room. ‘The Red Eyebrow bandits have grown stronger since Gaochi’s death. Their numbers are vast, and right now they pose the greatest threat to Fa-Ren’s authority. Before he can rule from the estate, he has to uproot multiple precincts already under Red control. We can exploit this situation.’

  ‘There’s no chance the Red Eyebrows will ever side with us if that’s where you’re going with this,’ someone called out.

  Glad someone said it, Boquin thought.

  ‘It’s a natural alignment,’ Gan replied calmly. ‘They outnumber any mercenary force Fa-Ren can import. Muscle, black-market weapons, supply routes, they have everything needed to wage a sustained conflict. And they already are.’ He paused. ‘After Mingchi’s coronation, they’ve been reclaiming territory from the Kuishi. But we have something the bandits don’t. An intelligence network stretching from Shenzhen to the deep Huang Wildlands.’

  Gan’s eyes hardened. ‘If Fa-Ren goes to war with the Red Eyebrows, their leader, Master Chong Fan, will inevitably collide with Yaozhi interests. That’s where we enter the equation. We are the only force capable of destabilising support flowing from the Yu Tower. Just as we intercepted this Vigour patch operation.’

  ‘And when the day comes for us to push towards the surface?’ Boquin asked. ‘You think they’ll still help us?’

  Gan fell silent for a moment.

  ‘When that day comes, Bo,’ he said quietly, ‘no one will be forced to follow us. Prophet Dong foretold that it will be one’s own compulsion that drives them towards the surface. Until that day comes, we remain cautious of our allies, but committed to our cause.’ He straightened. ‘I’ve already arranged a meeting with Master Chong Fan tonight. A small group will accompany me to his den. If we secure his backing, we strike Fa-Ren’s caches immediately. In return, the Yangs will commit our resources to elevating Chong Fan as Lord of Pik.’

  The room burst into sounds of objection.

  Gan silenced it with a sharp backhanded fist against the wall, the impact cracking through the chamber.

  ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘We do not have the luxury of installing some Saint of Light on Pik’s throne. We placed our faith in Mingchi, a religious idealist, and look where it led us! One of our own died because we rushed towards nobility in our alliances!’ His voice hardened. ‘Chong Fan is a scheming, dirty sheh. But if making him Lord brings us closer to Dong’s vision, then that is the price for the exodus to come.’

  Boquin knew the words were aimed at him as much as at anyone else. He had lost count of how many times he had objected to Gan reopening channels with the Yangs responsible for the bombings.

  And yet, he could not decide if this was worse.

  Boquin knew Gan would take no chances heading into the Red Eyebrows’ den. He had chosen some of the best shots in the cell: Boquin himself, Zifuan, and seven others. Each carried three weapons. A blade to surrender if demanded at the entrance. One concealed firearm. And, if that was discovered, a final hidden dagger.

  Gan alone carried a firearm as the weapon he intended to surrender first. He judged it less suspicious for the leader of the Pik Yangs to be armed differently, rather than carrying the same short blade as the rest.

  They moved through the streets in dark Yang robes, hoods shadowing their faces, black pigment smudged around their eyes, weapons hidden beneath layers of cloth. They set out from Kambaland City, the streets eerily empty, rodents skittering along the edges of alleyways.

  Gan knew where the Red Eyebrow base was. Before they left, he’d already been in correspondence with one of their own, informing them that the Yangs would be arriving to discuss matters of importance.

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  They entered the Hiram precinct and passed through stretches of Red Eyebrow–controlled streets. Groups of three or four loitering Red Eyebrow youths lingered at corners and doorways, barely initiated into the criminal organisation. Boquin returned their stares with open scorn. He had always hated them and saw no reason to hide it. Usually they scowled back. This time, faced with a full band of Yangs moving openly through their territory, they thought twice. With Mingchi and his Kuishi gone, for all these bandits knew, the Yangs stood unchecked. How much power that truly meant, only the Yangs themselves knew.

  The moment they crossed into a major Red Eyebrow stronghold, the bandits abandoned any pretence of caution. No more lurking in shadows. No more loitering around corners. Boquin watched them patrolling the narrow streets openly, pacing back and forth as if they owned it.

  Red spray paint and graffiti tags covered the walls and the windows of storefronts. Crimson light bled from hanging lanterns, neon strips ran the length of ceilings, cracked signage flickered, and jury-rigged power lines hummed overhead. Everything was drowned in a deep red haze. It was anything but subtle, nothing like what these streets would’ve looked like even just two annui-cycles ago. With virtually no law enforcement left to challenge them, the Red Eyebrows made no effort to conceal their grip on the precinct.

  They were truly everywhere.

  Skin-and-bone figures leaned from doorways and fire escapes, wrapped in mismatched layers of scavenged armour and torn, stained coats. Some bore crude cybernetic replacements – metallic forearms, reinforced legs – bolted directly into starved bodies. Black market modifications afforded by their organisation. What bound them all was a single slash of red pigment dragged across both eyebrows, uneven and hand-painted, yet bold enough to be seen from a distance.

  Some wore red hoods. Others covered their mouths with red cloth or half-masks. But none concealed their gang affiliation.

  Here, outnumbered on all sides, the Yangs were watched openly and without fear. Eyes tracked their every step. Boquin expected any one of them to step out and cause trouble for them, to act like the hooligans he knew they were, but he reminded himself that they were expected.

  The Yangs approached the den’s entrance, carved into the lower levels of a collapsed transit hub. The original signage around here had been stripped bare of its Yue characters, hammered into new red lettering that spelled Red Bandits above the main entrance. Red Eyebrow guards flanked the opening, skeletal yet taut, rifles hanging loose at their sides. They showed no surprise at the Yangs’ arrival.

  ‘Weapons,’ the guard on the left said, opening a bag.

  Gan glanced back at his group, then stepped forward.

  He dropped his pistol first. Then he turned around and extended a hand. One by one, each Yang surrendered their blade to Gan, who dropped it in. Boquin took comfort in feeling the weight of his other weapons hidden beneath his robes.

  The guards stepped aside and the band of Yangs began their descent into Master Chong Fan’s domain.

  The corridor sloped downward, cramped and uneven, the ceiling pressing low in places before lifting without warning. Tiles clacked beneath their shoes. Bare bulbs dangled from cords, casting everything in the same dull crimson glow.

  Red Eyebrows stood around the passageways. Dozens of them.

  Some spat as the Yangs passed. Others grinned, baring sharp and jagged teeth. One laughed outright. Insults were muttered. Tongues clicked. A bandit suddenly lunged forward towards Boquin, stopping just short with cocked eyebrows and a mocking grin.

  Boquin did not flinch. Neither did anyone else.

  They stepped into a vast chamber, the space swallowing sound and scale alike. The floor was tiled in worn geometric patterns of maroon and black, smoothed by years of traffic. Ahead rose a broad staircase, climbing slowly towards the far end of the hall.

  Massive pillars rose from each side, their surfaces stained and lacquered in dark brown, defaced by crude Red Eyebrow symbols. The walls were set with repeating square insets, and from within those deep indents dark vines spilled outward, creeping and tangled, as if nature had already began reclaiming the structure. From below, Boquin could see a towering doorway at the top, guarded and open, framed by long crimson banners that hung heavy in the air. Soft red light spilled from within, washing the steps in a low glow.

  Boquin felt something tighten in his chest. His hands brushed past his concealed weapon more than once by now.

  But Gan did not slow as they climbed the steps and passed through the main doorway.

  Beyond the doorway, the space opened into the main hall. Master Chong Fan’s domain. The red glow deepened here, heavier and more saturated, bleeding from embedded light strips, exposed circuitry, and repurposed industrial fixtures bolted straight into the stone.

  The floor was a patchwork of worn tiles, mismatched metal plates, and steel grates, beneath which Boquin caught glimpses of sluggish water trickling through. Thick cables snaked across the ground and walls, slipping in and out of cracked brickwork and warped panels on the ceiling. The air was warm and stale, heavy with oil, sweat, and a faint chemical tang that lingered at the back of the throat.

  Bandits filled the chamber, with no arrangement or discipline. The way they occupied the space reminded Boquin of vermin claiming a ruin. They leaned against pillars, perched along railings on crumbling platforms bolted high into the walls, or squat on broken crates playing cards. Every face bore the same red slash across the eyebrows. Every gaze tracked the Yangs as they passed.

  At the far end of the chamber, elevated just enough to command the room, sat the infamous Master Chong Fan. A red shawl hung from his shoulders, draped across his chest and resting on his lap. Beneath the bright cloth was thick leather armour, strapped to his chest, shoulder and abdomen, reinforced with large bolts and studs.

  The throne beneath him looked crudely assembled. Reinforced plating over chiselled stone. It hardly looked comfortable.

  To Boquin, Chong Fan looked like a man performing authority rather than possessing it. The self-styled title of ‘Master’ only reinforced the impression. Master of a gang of thugs.

  It takes a particular kind of person to wear that with pride, he thought, as the Yangs finally stood before him.

  Gan stepped forward and bowed. Boquin would have objected to bowing to a man like Chong Fan, but Gan had made it clear beforehand there would be no hesitation in playing the role of intermediaries and envoys, not rivals posturing for dominance.

  Boquin bowed low, along with the nine Yangs around him.

  ‘The noble Yang come,’ Chong Fan’s voice boomed, leaning forward on his throne as the visitors straightened. His smile was thin, knowing. ‘I hope Prophet Dong doesn’t mind you lowering yourselves to visit my unsanctified lair.’

  Gan did not hesitate. ‘Not at all, Master Fan. Prophet Dong’s earliest companions were bandits and prostitutes. Anju himself was a village peasant. We do not consider ourselves too righteous to extend a hand of friendship, because the manifestation of the Light himself never withheld one.’

  The leader of the Red Bandits raised an eyebrow and smiled. To Boquin’s surprise, the smile was genuinely charismatic, even disarming. It was not what he had expected from a man like Chong Fan. The bandit lord rubbed his chin and leaned back into his seat.

  ‘Perhaps the prophet did so in his time. But friendship doesn’t come free these days,’ he said lightly. ‘Nothing does. So tell me. What does friendship with the Yangs cost?’

  ‘Not everything is a transaction—’

  ‘Oh, come on, Yang. Don’t take me for a fool. I’ve lived in Kowloon as long as anyone else. Everything is a transaction. Even nonsense like “kindness and friendship.” And when the wallet goes empty, the transaction gets denied, the goodwill everyone swears by vanishes with it.’

  Gan inclined his head a fraction. ‘Very well. If we are speaking in transactions, then hear what we have to offer.’ He paused. ‘The Kingmakers have already installed their lord over District Pik.’

  Chong Fan’s ease vanished. His posture sharpened as he leaned forward again, eyes narrowing.

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Then you are a step behind, Master,’ Gan replied evenly. ‘We knew Mingchi’s regicide was in motion even before he did. And we know who they have chosen to rule us.’

  A flicker of anticipation crossed Chong Fan’s face. ‘Who?’

  ‘Fa-Ren. He became your de jure lord yesterday.’ Gan watched him carefully. ‘Judging by your expression, you know the name. Know what power he holds.’

  ‘So what? Were your eyes closed on the way here? We’ve taken territory on a historic scale. Members in a number that resemble an army.’

  ‘Against a collapsing Kuishi force in a broken society,’ Gan said calmly. ‘It is not remarkable to gain ground during the weakest governance Pik has seen in generations.’ He took a step forward, his voice steady. ‘Fa-Ren is not weak. And you know that. Like you, he has lived his entire life through transactions. He might even understand it better than you.’

  Chong Fan said nothing as he listened.

  ‘Fa-Ren has enough Hongs to buy the trust of every starving person in this district,’ Gan continued evenly. ‘He won’t need grand speeches like Mingchi did. Since the famine peaked, Pik’s loyalty has been up for sale. You understood that. That’s why you moved first to buy it, promising smuggled food and mind-numbing drugs to your members. You eased just enough desperation to build the force you’re so proud of.’

  Gan did not raise his voice as he continued. ‘Fa-Ren won’t have to fight you. He’s the buyer who can outbid you. He won’t touch you directly. He’ll buy your men instead. The moment your Eyebrows have food in their stomachs, they’ll walk away on their own.’

  He let the silence stretch before continuing.

  ‘He can strip away the very reason most of your force joined you. Once he figures out how to make people forget their hunger, your organisation will collapse from the ground up.’

  Chong Fan finally snorted. ‘If Pik’s famine could be solved with Hongs, you’re stupider than I thought.’ He leaned forward. ‘The Emperor’s Zhaisheng can’t even import enough food into East Kowloon. Production and supply chains are broken inside and out. It will take cycles to rebuild them with just money alone. If anything, whatever Mingchi was trying to do with secession was our best chance at more food.’ He smiled a wide grin. ‘But he’s gone now.’

  Gan stepped forward and flicked a small object towards Chong Fan. It arced cleanly through the air. Chong Fan caught it without effort and turned it over in his palm, studying the dark surface.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A Vigour patch,’ Gan said evenly. ‘Fa-Ren knows throwing money at the famine won’t work. Not anytime soon. His solution is short-term, and it doesn’t involve feeding a single person.’ He pointed to Chong Fan’s hand. ‘That thing you’re holding is his solution, and he aims to distribute it to everyone very soon.’

  ‘What’s it do?’

  ‘Bring out your hungriest Eyebrow. Have them place that patch on their stomach. Then you’ll understand exactly what Fa-Ren’s plan is.’

  A flicker of concern crossed Master Chong Fan’s face. He lifted a hand and beckoned to one of the bandits seated along the hall’s edge. The man rose slowly and crossed the chamber, passing the Yangs before stopping at the foot of the throne.

  ‘I’ll give you six hundred Hongs if you put this on. Right now,’ Chong Fan said.

  The Eyebrow hesitated. His eyes dropped to Gan, then flicked back to Chong Fan. After a moment, he nodded.

  He lifted his shirt. His stomach was sunken and scarred, the skin drawn tight over protruding ribs, every breath visible beneath it. Hunger had stripped him down like everyone else.

  Chong Fan pressed the patch against the man’s bare abdomen.

  The reaction was immediate. The change did not come with pain.

  The bandit sucked in a sharp breath, more out of surprise than distress. His shoulders twitched, then eased. The tight, defensive hunch in his posture loosened, as if some unseen weight had been lifted from his chest.

  His eyes widened. He dropped the shirt back down.

  For a moment, he simply stood there, blinking. Then his breathing slowed. Deepened. The shallow, ragged pull of air gave way to steadier breaths. His hands, which had been trembling at his sides, stilled.

  A faint sound of laughter came from the bandit. It was small at first, startled, as though he hadn’t meant to make it.

  He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, testing his body the way a man might after waking from a long sleep. His spine aligned. His neck lifted. Colour did not return to his skin, but his expression changed as if it did. The drawn tightness around his mouth softened. His eyes shone with a sudden clarity.

  ‘I…’ he began, then stopped. He pressed a hand to his stomach, fingers splaying over bone and scar. Boquin understood that even though the hunger should have been screaming at him that very moment, it wasn’t.

  A slow smile crept across the bandit’s face.

  He inhaled again, deliberately this time, as if savouring the sensation of not being hungry. His knees bent, then straightened. He bounced once on the balls of his feet, light, effortless. Too effortless.

  Other bandits around the room leaned forward. Boquin heard muttering around the hall.

  The man’s body had not changed. His ribs still jutted beneath thin skin. His arms were still little more than sinew stretched tight. But he moved as though the weakness had been switched off rather than remedied.

  He laughed again, louder now, and dragged a hand through his hair.

  ‘What’s happening to you?’ Chong Fan demanded.

  ‘I feel—’ He searched for the word. ‘I feel good, master. Like I used to. As if my mother just fed me. I don’t feel weak anymore.’

  The bandit lifted his shirt again, seeing the patch embedded into his skin, wrinkling where the pins were injected.

  Boquin felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  Nothing was fixed. The man was still starving.

  He just couldn’t feel it anymore.

  This was the Yangs’ first time seeing it in action, outside the sanitised theatrics of the advert they had watched earlier in the cycle. Boquin glanced around. Horror was written plainly on every face among his comrades. Gan had taken a step back, but remained stoic otherwise.

  Master Chong Fan, however, did not look horrified. He was frowning, but not with fear. It was the look of a man caught in morbid fascination.

  Gan spoke as Chong Fan continued to stare at the rejuvenated bandit volunteer.

  ‘Once these are distributed across the district, banditry will wither,’ Gan said calmly. ‘Fa-Ren intends to restart the economy by putting everyone back to work the moment they receive a patch. That’s how he destroys you.’ He paused. ‘The effects last only as long as the patch functions. People will eat only when they remember they should. Not because they feel hunger. Forget long enough, and they’ll just drop dead. Even that wouldn’t hurt.’

  His voice did not change.

  ‘Fa-Ren will have walking skeletons convinced they’ve just eaten the finest meals their minds can imagine. And when that happens, what do you pay your men with? They’ll even lose interest in the drugs.’ Gan let Chong Fan consider the thought.

  Chong Fan finally spoke, his eyes still locked on the bandit. ‘So what do you intend to do?’

  ‘There’s a cache in the Lan Sing precinct,’ Gan replied. ‘Over half a million patches, ready for door-to-door distribution. We have the intelligence to strike it.’

  Chong Fan exhaled through his nose. ‘Just not the muscle.’

  Gan’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘No. We’re starving too. Not just food, weapons too. Surviving on scraps of aid from Yang cells in South Kowloon.’ He met Chong Fan’s gaze at last. ‘But you have the numbers. You have the weapons. And now, you have a stronger reason than we do to bring that cache down.’

  ‘Prophet Dong won’t like the sound of these patches, will he?’ Chong Fan said, a dry chuckle slipping out as he rubbed his chin. His eyes stayed on Gan. ‘Even for someone like me… I can tell this is probably as black as sin.’

  ‘That’s part of it,’ Gan replied. ‘As Dongists, it crosses a line. To manage suffering in the most inhumane way possible. We Yang would never allow it,’ he let the words sit.

  ‘Fine. If Fa-Ren intends to ship his patches soon, we strike the cache immediately. How do we go about doing this?’

  ‘We have bombs,’ Gan said.

  Chong Fan’s mouth twitched. ‘Oh, after last annui-cycle, I don’t doubt that.’

  Gan did not react. Boquin clenched his jaw. He knew exactly what Chong Fan was referring to. I’d slap you where you stand, Boquin barely whispered.

  Gan continued as if nothing had been said. ‘Fifty mercenaries are stationed inside. The exterior is light. Fa-Ren is keeping his militia presence minimal until he’s bought himself popularity. The building’s security is basic: simple locks on gates and windows. Once we breach, it may turn into a heated firefight. If your men can hold them off for thirty minutes, we can plant enough charges to bring the place down.’

  Chong Fan cut him off sharply. ‘You aren’t blowing anything up.’

  Gan’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The patches,’ Chong Fan said, still amused. ‘I want them.’

  Gan went still.

  Boquin felt his stomach drop. Is this bastard serious?

  His gaze flicked to Gan, willing him not to entertain it.

  ‘We can’t allow that,’ Gan said, measured. ‘The whole reason we came to you was to stop these flooding the streets. Neither of us will survive Fa-Ren’s plans.’

  ‘You won’t survive,’ Chong Fan corrected smoothly. ‘If Fa-Ren gets what he wants, one of us will survive a tiny bit better than the other.’

  ‘Master Chong Fan,’ Gan said in rising tempo, ‘this is an unreasonable demand. You cannot have assumed we would—’

  ‘Transactions, Yang!’ Chong Fan interrupted. ‘Don’t forget how this works.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘You’ve named your need. You want my muscle, because a Yaozhi puppet on Pik’s throne is a catastrophe for you. Don’t think I can’t put this into perspective, Yang, I know enough about this war you’ve been waging against the Dynasty. The same war since the District Rebellions ended.’

  Gan held his gaze. Chong Fan went on.

  ‘If Fa-Ren wins Pik’s favour, its the end of the line for your cell. You rely on their goodwill as much as Fa-Ren does. Otherwise, how else would you convince everyone to go on your… Biblical exodus to the surface?’

  Come on, Gan, Boquin thought. You don’t have to take this shit from this lowlife!

  Gan still kept quiet, just listening patiently to the bandit master.

  ‘Say these patches go out, I lose men. I know that. But we bandits don’t live on victories and defeats, like you warmongering Yangs. We watch the rises and the dips. We adapt on the dip, and we take on the rise. Under Gaochi’s long rule, we went through the same shit. And we waited, and once he died and opportunity reared it’s head, we snatched it. Why should it be any different with Fa-Ren? You think men like him are a first for us?’

  Rage flared. Boquin stepped forward. ‘Gan, you give that man those patches and I’ll blow this whole fucking place up on principle—’

  ‘Boquin, shut your damned mouth!’ Gan snapped.

  The scolding cracked across the hall. Chong Fan and a handful of bandits around the hall chuckled and snorted, as if Boquin had barked at the wrong time and nothing more. Boquin stood rigid, fists clenched, blood roaring in his ears.

  Chong Fan’s voice softened. ‘Fa-Ren would give these for free. I’d charge a hefty amount. It is better off in my hands. Or you can walk out with nothing. We’ll weather Lord Fa-Ren one way or the other.’

  Gan exhaled slowly. When he finally spoke again, his tone was almost clinical.

  ‘Fine. We understand the… The transaction. We receive your firepower. You get to keep the patches.’ He paused. ‘But I want your word on one condition. You do not circulate them in District Pik. Not to citizens. Not to recruits. Not to anyone.’

  Chong Fan went quiet for a moment. Then he gave a thin smile. ‘You ever hear that South Kowlooni saying? Never negotiate with a sheh—’

  ‘For its own skin,’ Gan finished. ‘Never bargain with a sheh for its own skin.’ His gaze stayed steady. ‘You’re asking why you should do something that’s obviously not in your interest.’

  Chong Fan’s smile did not move.

  ‘Then I’ll make it your interest.’ Gan stepped forward, placing one foot on the first stair. Boquin heard bodies shift behind him, the scrape of boots and the subtle slide of metal.

  Then Gan pointed a finger at Chong. ‘Because if you keep your word, make sure you don’t sell these to our own citizens, the Yangs across Kowloon will make sure the next throne you sit on is inside Mingchi’s estate. As Lord of Pik.’

  The change in Chong Fan’s face was immediate. The amusement fell away.

  Gan continued, unhurried. ‘This raid is the beginning of Fa-Ren’s fall. He will not have time to settle into power before we cut the legs out from under him. When he drops, the seat remains empty again, and the dynasty will have no shortage of loyal cronies ready to fill it.’ He let that truth hang. ‘If we want Pik free of dynasty reach, then we need someone on that throne who is not Yaozhi-owned.’

  Boquin looked away. He hated all of this. He didn’t want to listen anymore.

  ‘Prove you can keep your word tonight. Show us you can handle compromise. Show us you understand that a man’s promise has value. That your ambitions can become something bigger than a bandit’s brass crown.’

  Chong Fan’s voice stayed calm, but his gaze sharpened. ‘And why wouldn’t we just become your puppet instead?’

  Gan did not blink. ‘Because you already know what we want. We’re not hiding it. The exodus to the surface.’ He tilted his head slightly. ‘A “puppet” to us means that when the time comes, you do not stand in the way. It means you move with us, or at least you allow the movement to happen. We don’t seek power or money. Just fulfilment of Dong’s word.’

  He took his foot off the stair, as if to show there was no need for drama.

  ‘If you become Lord, I doubt the black-market rodent-shit will matter as much as you think. You’ll have real power. Real infrastructure. Real leverage.’ Gan’s tone remained even. ‘All you have to do is wait for some prophecy you don’t care about to arrive, and keep your word until it does.’

  A brief pause.

  ‘You keep the patches. Sell it elsewhere, if that still matters to you. But do as I ask, and you’ll gain far more than this cache. You’ll gain a district. The Ibilis himself swears by it.’

  For the first time in the conversation, Chong Fan looked disarmed. ‘I suppose Pik isn’t the only district starving…’ The bandit lord muttered before he went still, staring past the Yangs as though the room had slipped away, and all that remained was the offer.