The hour was a thief's hour, that deep, silent trough just before dawn bleaches the night. In the makeshift site office of the construction project—a prefabricated box that smelled of stale cigarette smoke, damp concrete dust, and the bitter dregs of endless instant coffee—Michael sat on a plastic stool that groaned under him. The only illumination was the harsh, buzzing glare of a single fluorescent tube, painting everything in a sickly, shadowless pallor. Across a desk littered with grimy blueprints and stained teacups, Wang Jianshe, the contractor, was counting money. Not electronically, but with the slow, deliberate shuff-shuffof well-worn hundred-yuan notes passing through thick, calloused fingers.
The sound was a sacrament. Michael watched, his body a single, throbbing monument to exhaustion, but his mind preternaturally sharp, focused on that rhythmic shuff-shuff. Every muscle fiber screamed. His lower back was a knot of solid agony, his shoulders felt dislocated, and his hands, inside the cheap work gloves, were raw and blistered. Yet, beneath the pain, a strange, electric hum of residual power still vibrated in his bones—the last fading echoes of the Bull's Strengthscroll he'd surreptitiously used in the reeking porta-potty hours ago. The magic had been shockingly, brutally physical. It hadn't made the work easy; it had made him capableof it. It had turned his body into a machine, a piston of relentless efficiency, but even machines need maintenance, and his was now crashing.
"One… two… three…"
The whisper was involuntary, escaping his cracked lips as he mentally tallied the growing stack. The numbers danced behind his eyes, a brighter, more compelling arithmetic than the pain. This wasn't just payment; it was a lifeline thrown across two worlds.
Wang finished, tapped the stack neatly on the desk, and slid it across. "Count it yourself, kid."
Michael didn't need telling twice. His aching fingers, clumsy with fatigue, took the notes. He went through them with a slowness that was partly caution, partly a savoring of the ritual. The paper had a distinct, slightly greasy feel. He counted once, then, paranoid, twice more, his lips moving silently. The final number settled in his mind with the weight of a solved equation.
He looked up, managing a grin that felt like it might crack his dusty face. "Spot on, Boss Wang. Thirteen thousand six hundred. My back thanks you, but my bank account salutes you."
He stuffed the thick wad deep into the pocket of his filthy cargo pants, the bulge satisfyingly substantial against his thigh. As he did, a wave of profound, almost philosophical irony washed over him. Here I am, he thought, a man who walks between worlds, who commands monsters and possesses a magical portal in his brain… reduced to a pack mule for a property developer. All to buy gruel for a town of starving mutants.The absurdity was breathtaking. He knew, intellectually, that the single-use magic scroll was worth far more than this cash. It was a piece of a forgotten world, a drop of real magic in a mundane universe. But in the brutal economics of survival, theory was worthless. The scroll was a sunk cost. This money was tomorrow's food. The Cinder Towners had to live to find more scrolls. It was a vicious, circular logic, and he was trapped in its center.
Wang Jianshe watched him, his own expression unreadable. To him, this wasn't a tragedy or a farce; it was a good night's business. The steel had been decent, saving him nearly ten thousand on the open market. The labor cost, even at a slight premium, was a bargain. This one scrawny kid had done the work of a crew of eight, and he'd done it silently, without complaint, and with an unsettling, machinelike precision. The math, for Wang, was beautiful in its simplicity.
"You're a good lad, Niu," Wang said, the gruffness in his voice edged with something akin to respect. "A hard worker. The kind that's getting rare." He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "Now listen. Day after tomorrow. Same time. We'll have another six trucks of brick, maybe eight. And more cement. You be here. Early."
The suggestion landed like a physical blow. Michael's entire body recoiled at the thought. One night of this magically-enhanced drudgery had brought him to the brink. To sign up for it as a regular gig? The very idea was offensive. He was a dimension-hopping entrepreneur, not a day laborer! Once he had cash flow from the steel trade, this would be beneath him. Karl Marx had it wrong, he thought wildly; it wasn't capital that would make men do anything, it was sheer, desperate liquidity.
"Boss Wang… I appreciate it, really," Michael began, his voice hoarse. "But this… this was a one-off. Special circumstances. You'll find other guys. Put up a sign, offer a bonus…"
Wang didn't change his expression. He simply looked at Michael, his eyes the flat, assessing grey of weathered concrete. He didn't plead. He stated a new fact.
"One maoper brick," he said, the words dropping into the quiet room like stones. "For the unloading. Cement, double the rate. You get the night's haul cleared, and I make my schedule, I don't care about the margin. The bricks are yours. The money is yours. Just be here."
The recalculation happened in Michael's mind instantly, bypassing conscious thought. More trucks. Higher rates. The steel haul on top. The number that flashed behind his eyes was close to twenty thousand. For one night.The pain in his back screamed a warning. The phantom memory of the scroll's empowering fire warred with the promise of that number. The money wasn't just for gruel anymore. It was for tools. For medicine. For a real foundation in that other world. It was freedom, hauled one brick at a time.
The internal battle was brief and brutal. Greed, and the larger ambition it fed, won. He met Wang's gaze, his own eyes hardening. "Alright. I'll be here. But you tell your people," he said, his voice low and suddenly serious. "Those bricks on Thursday night. They're mine. Nobody else touches them. I'll know."
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Wang's face. "Of course, kid. Consider them spoken for. They were born waiting for you."
As Michael stepped out of the fluorescent cell of the office, the pre-dawn air was cold and damp, tasting of diesel and wet earth. His body felt like a borrowed suit two sizes too small. A sound made him turn. Leaning in the doorway of the site canteen, a converted shipping container, was the ample figure of the night cook, Wang's 'auntie.' She was backlit by a warm, greasy light, and in her hands was a bowl. No, not a bowl. A basin. A stainless-steel basin of the kind used to mix cement for small jobs. It was piled with a mountain of noodles, glistening with oil and studded with thick, white slabs of pork fat that looked like edible ivory.
"Hey, handsome," she called, her voice surprisingly gentle. "You left without your supper. Boss said you earned it."
The sight bypassed his mind and went straight to his gut. A primal, ravenous hunger, held at bay by adrenaline and magic, roared to life. He walked over, his footsteps echoing on the gravel. He took the basin. It was warm, heavy. The smell—garlic, soy, rendered lard, the simple, glorious starch of wheat—was the most beautiful thing he'd ever encountered. He didn't sit. He stood there, under the buzzing security light, and ate. He used the chopsticks she offered for the first few bites, then abandoned them. He lifted the basin, drinking the rich, salty, fat-slicked broth. He forked the noodles and meat into his mouth with his fingers, shoveling it in with a speed that was neither graceful nor human. He didn't taste it; he consumedit. The food was fuel, pouring into the furnace of his body, trying to bank the fires that the night's work had burned down to cinders. When he finally lowered the basin, it was empty. Polished. He'd drunk the last of the broth directly from the rim.
He handed it back to the woman, muttering a thanks he didn't feel, only a deep, animal gratitude. He turned and walked towards the gate, towards his battered Wuling Sunshine, its missing windshield a black yawn in the gloom. He was a ghost, a creature of two worlds, leaving one battlefield for another, his pockets heavy, his body broken, and his path forward paved with the humble, brutal currency of clay and concrete.
Back in the office, Wang Jianshe was pouring himself a shot of cheap baijiuwhen his auntie lumbered in, the empty basin in her hands. Her face was a picture of stunned disbelief.
"You wouldn't believe it," she said, her voice hushed. "The whole thing. Noodles, soup, fat… even the spring onions. He drank the tap water from the hose first, half a bellyful, then ate it all. The basin… it's like it's been cleaned. Not a spot."
Wang paused, the shot glass halfway to his lips. He thought of the slight frame, the impossible strength, the silent, relentless work. He thought of the empty basin.
He set the glass down, untouched. "Next time he comes," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Buy more meat. The fattiest you can find. Back fat. Belly. Three fingers thick. Cook it all. This boy… he works like he's fueling a dragon. The least we can do is feed it."