Ke Ming never got to see the day his mother had promised.
One night, his father crashed through the front door, staggering, soaked head to toe in blood. A longsword was clenched tight in his hand, its silver blade dyed red.
He braced himself against the doorframe, shoulders heaving.
"Hurry… take the child and go."
"Where?" his mother demanded.
"…The Six Association."
She didn't even try to pack. Hair loose and wild, she scooped Ke Ming up and bolted for the exit. His father tore off his overcoat and threw it around her shoulders, covering the small body in her arms.
That was the first time Ke Ming saw the City beyond their door.
It wasn't a modern metropolis blazing with light. It was pitch-black, with only a few dim streetlamps barely illuminating the road ahead.
A thin mist lingered in the air. The high-rises lining the street were dull and lifeless, without a single window glowing.
Everything was silent.
No voices. No footsteps. Not even the sound of stray animals.
His mother carried Ke Ming, supporting his father as they stumbled down the street.
"Cut through the Backstreets," his father said.
Then he shoved her away, turning his back to them. The longsword in his hand flashed with cold light beneath the moon.
"Go. They're catching up."
His mother looked back, trembling faintly.
"What about you?"
"…Take the child. Go."
She didn't turn back again.
Wrapped in the overcoat from head to toe, she charged straight into a narrow alley.
Through a gap in the fabric, Ke Ming looked over her shoulder.
Clouds swallowed the moon. Firelight surged up into the sky, painting the tall buildings in a violent orange. His father—carrying the momentum of someone who would not retreat—ran into a dense, black mass of people.
The clang of steel against steel.
The wet tearing sound of flesh being cut.
Angry, guttural roars.
In the dead-quiet City, every noise was painfully, brutally clear.
Swing. Cut down. Raise the blade. Charge.
Behind the man, it was as if countless shadows stood with him—swords drawn, slashing, stepping forward, slashing again—
A formation neat and unified.
Movements stripped down to the bare essentials.
One step, then another.
The crowd fell in sheaves, like wheat being harvested.
He pushed forward.
And he never looked back even once.
Ke Ming tugged at his mother's sleeve.
"Mo… Mom? What is Dad going to do?"
"…Dad is going somewhere very, very far," she whispered.
"Then what about us?"
"…You have to live."
The smog had found the scent of prey.
It rolled in from every direction, surging and gathering—yet it seemed to fear something, hesitating to approach. Instead, it parted just enough to leave a narrow path.
Ke Ming felt something wet on his face. Drops fell onto his cheek—warm, not sticky.
Drip. Drip.
More liquid slid down along his mother's collar. He reached up and touched her cheek.
Thank God.
It wasn't blood.
It was tears.
They pushed through the haze, and the air thinned. The fear eased—just a little.
A faint stink of blood filled Ke Ming's nose, stabbing at his nerves.
He didn't know how long they ran.
Fatigue washed over him. He struggled against the heaviness in his eyelids, but the world began to blur. Their pace slowed. The gentle jostling almost felt like being rocked in a cradle again.
Then—suddenly—
A violent lurch.
And right after it, a sharp, sickening weightlessness.
Ke Ming felt a brutal blow to the back of his head.
His vision went black.
He passed out.
Half-asleep, half-awake, he heard voices.
"Target eliminated."
"There's also a kid. What do we do?"
"Orders didn't mention it. Kill him."
"Understood."
Pain tore through every nerve in Ke Ming's body. His brain screamed danger into his muscles. Adrenaline flooded him, forcing his eyes open.
He was hanging in midair.
A humanoid creature in a yellow mask had him by the collar. From its shoulders extended mechanical limbs that looked disturbingly alive—slithering along his neck.
The cold touch raised goosebumps across his skin.
He saw his mother.
A longsword had pierced straight through her chest. Even in death, she still held the posture of an embrace.
His father's overcoat hung in tatters, draped crookedly over her shoulders.
"Thud."
A mangled, bloody corpse was tossed down beside her. A taller figure, also wearing a yellow mask, stepped out from the shadows.
"Lost more than half the brothers, but we barely got it done. That dumb bastard was hard to kill."
"No kidding. You don't get wanted by a Wing without having real teeth."
The voice was mechanical—yet strangely, unsettlingly human.
The tall figure bent, picked up his father's overcoat, the hem dragging along the ground.
"Tsk. What a waste. Moonstone."
"Stop drooling over a damn coat. If you don't want to die, don't touch it. That's Six Association gear."
"Tch. Like you know everything."
The coat was flung toward Ke Ming.
"Motherf—! Are you trying to get us killed?"
The masked man with the external mechanical limb cursed as five or six more writhing appendages sprouted from his back.
Bang.
A figure dropped from above, landing with both feet and cracking the ground beneath.
"Hurry up. Deep Night is coming."
"Boss, the kid's got soft skin. If we sell him to the Head Chef, we could get a good price."
"Then take him. We don't have time."
"Got it, boss."
The oversized coat wrapped tightly around Ke Ming, squeezing his throat.
The world narrowed.
And he lost consciousness again.
…
When he woke up, he stared at an unfamiliar ceiling.
The room was sealed tight. The air was thick with the stench of blood—mixed with a rich, mouthwatering aroma.
The walls were stark white, clean and orderly, without a single stain.
Ke Ming jolted upright, but his muscles screamed in protest. A deep, savage soreness flooded his limbs.
"Don't move—unless you want to die right now."
A gleaming butcher's cleaver rested against his throat.
"Welcome to Alley No. 23."
"Ingredient."
-------
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