The marketplace of Foshan buzzed with the usual chaos—merchants shouting prices, pigs squealing from bamboo cages, and the stench of fish left too long in the sun. Among the crowd, a boy walked barefoot, his ragged clothes hanging loose over a frame too young yet too solid.
Zhang Jie.
Seven years old.
His gray eyes scanned the stalls, not searching for food or playthings, but for something else—motion, energy, challenge.He didn't yet know why his chest felt restless in crowds, why the clamor of voices irritated him, why his fists tightened at every loud laugh. He only knew that when violence erupted, the pressure inside his chest eased.
And today, Foshan would give him just that.
They were the type every town knew: lazy-eyed, swaggering, sharp knives tucked under sashes. Three of them cornered a vendor, a bent old man selling roasted duck.
"Half price, old dog," one sneered, slapping the table so hard the ducks rolled. "Or we take all of it."
The old man begged, voice quivering, but his trembling only emboldened them. A slap sent him sprawling into the dirt. People turned away quickly. This was normal.
Zhang Jie didn't turn away.
His steps stopped, his head tilted, and for a moment those gray eyes locked on the three men. They noticed.
"What're you staring at, brat?" The tallest thug spat.
Jie didn't answer. His fists curled. The crowd began backing up, sensing what was about to happen.
The leader chuckled. "You serious? A little rat like you wants to play hero?"
Jie finally spoke, voice soft and flat:
"...You're loud
The thug stomped forward, hand raised to backhand the child. His palm cut through the air—
—and the sound that followed wasn't a slap.
It was a crack.
Zhang Jie's fist met the man's ribs with a dull, bone-deep thud. The thug's body lurched sideways, mouth opening in a silent gasp before he crumpled into the dust, wheezing like a crushed bellows.
The other two froze, staring at the boy who hadn't even changed expression. Jie shook his fist once, flexing his knuckles.
"You're weak," he murmured.
The second thug roared and swung a knife. Steel gleamed in the afternoon sun. Jie didn't step back. He stepped in. His small hand seized the man's wrist and twisted with brutal simplicity.
Crunch.
The knife clattered to the ground. The man screamed, wrist bent at a grotesque angle. Jie shoved him down with a contemptuous kick to the stomach.
The last thug's courage cracked. He tried to run, but Jie was already there. A blur of motion, a fist smashing across his jaw—teeth flew into the dirt, blood spraying. The man collapsed, twitching.
The marketplace was silent except for the groans of three grown men writhing in the dust.
And the boy, standing calm, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. His knuckles were red, but his face remained blank.
He looked down at the old vendor. "They won't bother you again."
The old man just stared, wide-eyed, too shaken to respond. Around them, whispers rose:
"That child… did you see?"
"Three men—grown men—"
"His eyes… those eyes…"
Some looked at Jie with awe. Others, with fear.
The boy didn't care. His heart had stopped pounding. The pressure in his chest was gone. For now.
He walked away, leaving the three broken men in the dirt, the crowd parting around him as if afraid to touch something not entirely human.
That night, in the dark of his tiny home, Zhang Jie flexed his bruised knuckles under the moonlight. For the first time, he felt it clearly.
The world wasn't enough for him.
Only battle would ever silence the storm inside his veins.
And he was just getting started.