Night had fallen.
As usual, the kitchen scraps were thrown outside—by morning, the Sweepers would have cleaned everything away.
Ke Ming rested his chin in his hand, staring blankly out the window.
A dense, black tide—Sweepers surging like seawater—filled most of his view.
Devour. Break down. Assimilate. Unstoppable.
Individually they aren't that impressive. Even I could probably dance around them a little, Ke Ming thought.
But when the Sweepers gather together… they become the Backstreets' Deep Night—something people dread like death itself.
Even the Head Chef, in front of a wave that never breaks and never stops, has to avoid it.
Unless…
Knock, knock, knock.
The knocking fell like a stone dropped into still water, shattering the silence.
Ke Ming jolted so hard he nearly toppled headfirst out of the open window.
"C-Chef…?"
He called out cautiously.
"Get to the second floor. Hide. Through the window."
Before he even understood what was happening, Ke Ming's body obeyed on instinct.
His left hand hooked the window frame—one flip, and he was hanging outside.
…
Knock, knock, knock.
The door was being tapped in a measured rhythm.
In all the past ten-plus years—this had never happened.
No one dared invade the home of Xinxu Garden's Head Chef.
Maybe once there had been a few fools—petty thieves with more courage than brains.
But those people always vanished like they'd evaporated, never to be seen again.
Of course, in Alley Twenty-Three, that was just daily life.
But this time… it wasn't ordinary.
Someone had bypassed the Chef's defenses and reached the third floor.
He could have slit their throats in their sleep.
But he didn't.
Instead, he chose—politely—to knock.
The Head Chef's mind stirred with memories long buried.
Decades ago, when he was still in his prime… there had been a day like this.
A door, knocked on again and again—patient, tireless.
"The Backstreets'… poison miasma…"
Last time, he lost his wife.
This time… what would he lose?
…
Lowie straightened his green tricorn hat and knocked again.
To be fair, the Head Chef of Xinxu Garden had real skill—some of the hallway traps had nearly injured him.
I really am getting old. My reactions are far slower than they used to be.
He didn't say it aloud. On a job, he rarely spoke.
Knock, knock, knock.
Another knock.
Decades of experience told him this was the safest—and most elegant—method.
Prey always broke first.
Sure enough, the door opened.
"Pale-green miasma."
A flash of steel—
The Head Chef swung horizontally, chopping hard at the elderly man outside.
The old man in green bent at the waist just in time—barely avoiding the strike.
The blade split the door in two and bit into the wall.
"Perhaps I should call you… the former taboo hunter, Lowie?"
The Head Chef released his grip, yanked a broad blade nearly as tall as a man from the rack, and braced it before him.
Left foot planted, right foot driving—
He charged like a rhinoceros, both hands gripping the hilt, raising the blade overhead.
A downward cleave.
A spear appeared from nowhere and blocked the brutal strike.
Lowie was forced backward by the weight of it, his shoes carving two deep grooves into the floor.
"I didn't even break my agreement with T Corp. So you showing up like this, old man… what's the point?"
The Head Chef angled his blade and slashed upward toward Lowie's abdomen.
It cut nothing.
With speed that didn't match his age, the old man twisted—and thrust.
The spearhead punched through the Head Chef's right shoulder, piercing clean through.
"So ruthless…"
The Head Chef didn't even flinch at the mangled wound.
He bared his teeth in an ugly grin.
He grabbed the shaft, face flushing red, veins bulging in his arms as he heaved the spear violently to the right.
Dragged by that monstrous force, Lowie lost control of his body and slammed into the wall.
"…Sigh."
Lowie tightened his grip.
Left hand pressed down. Right hand lifted.
The spearhead—once a single point—bloomed like a flower, splitting into four petals, tearing the wound even wider.
From the "stamen" burst a dark green liquid—
Anything it touched began to break down and melt.
"F—!"
The Head Chef retreated instantly—letting the embedded spearhead rip the wound even further.
He raised his blade and swung.
His right arm—already rotting into blackened flesh—was severed clean off.
Sizzle.
The leftover green liquid ate into the floor, seeping down toward the second story.
"I've come for that boy."
A weathered voice cut through the room.
It was the first time the Head Chef had ever heard the Poison Miasma speak.
"Where is he?"
"If I tell you, you'll spare me?"
"…You'll die with less pain."
Thud.
The Head Chef's legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, face bloodless.
"Damn… that's poison."
He cursed through clenched teeth and forced himself upright—
But his mind went blank, his vision blackened, and he collapsed back down again.
"Tell me where he is."
"Peh."
Mixed with bloody foam, a loosened tooth spat onto the floor.
"Ha… Wing's dog… you just love wiping out bloodlines…"
He gasped, sucking in air.
Blood leaking between his fingers slowly turned dark—almost black.
Enemies of the Poison Miasma… never ended well.
....
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