The world did not forget men like Li Chen—it simply chose, with a quiet and deliberate cruelty, to look through them as if they were stains on glass, inconvenient yet unworthy of acknowledgment, and in that rotting stretch of the Outer Slums where even the evening light arrived tired and half-dead, he walked with a dragging gait that spoke not of weakness but of something far more stubborn, a refusal to collapse even when collapse would have been mercy.
The alley stank of iron and rot, not the clean metallic scent of fresh blood but the sour, clotted residue of things that had died badly and been left to fester under a sky that no longer cared, and as Li Chen's boots ground against broken bricks, each step scraped like a quiet protest, as though the earth itself resented bearing witness to lives reduced to this—men hauling corpses while others stood and judged.
A siren wailed somewhere far away, thin and distant, its urgency dulled by distance and indifference, and Li Chen did not look up, did not pause, because sirens belonged to those who still mattered, to those who might yet be saved, and not to men whose names were never written down in the first place.
His fingers were bleeding.
Not dramatically, not in some heroic cascade, but in the slow, persistent way of skin that had split too many times to bother healing properly, and as he dragged the dead beast by its tail, the coarse hide scraped against the ground with a sound like dry bones grinding together, while his grip tightened—not out of strength, but out of sheer refusal to let go.
"Fuck… this stinks worse than yesterday," Tang Bo muttered beside him, voice low yet sharp with that familiar mix of fear and forced humor, his shoulders hunched, his eyes darting as if expecting the corpse to suddenly lurch back to life, and he spat to the side, missing the ground and hitting his own boot, then swore again, louder this time, "We're just disposable… they don't even see us, damn it," his lips curling in a half-laugh that carried no amusement, only bitterness stretched thin.
Li Chen said nothing.
His jaw tightened.
Not in anger that flared and burned bright, but in that quieter, heavier way, where the muscles locked as if bracing against something unseen, and his gaze remained forward, fixed on the narrow path ahead, because looking at Tang Bo's face—at that flickering mix of fear and resignation—would have made something inside him shift, and he could not afford that, not here, not now.
The beast was heavier than it looked.
It always was.
A twisted thing with hardened scales and a split jaw, its tongue lolling out in a grotesque parody of exhaustion, and Li Chen adjusted his grip slightly, ignoring the fresh sting as skin tore further, because pain had long since lost its novelty, reduced instead to a dull companion that followed him like a shadow, never leaving, never speaking, simply existing.
Then came the interruption.
Boots.
Clean.
Firm.
Arrogant.
Guard Captain Xu Wei did not walk into the alley so much as claim it, his presence cutting through the stagnant air like a blade, and when his gaze fell upon Li Chen and Tang Bo, there was no curiosity in it, no recognition—only a cold assessment, as one might regard tools left out in the rain.
He kicked the corpse.
Not hard enough to move it far, but with enough force to send a jolt through Li Chen's arms, and the motion was careless, dismissive, the kind of gesture that said more than words ever could, before his lips curled in a faint sneer, and he spoke, voice dripping with disdain, "You're late again, trash," the last word delivered with a deliberate softness that made it sharper than a shout.
Tang Bo stiffened.
His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if wrestling with something he knew he could not win, and finally he forced out a strained chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, "Captain… we had to clear two zones today, the bodies—" his voice faltered under Xu Wei's gaze, shrinking, folding in on itself like paper in flame, and he swallowed hard, eyes dropping, "—they piled up, sir."
Xu Wei did not even look at him.
His attention remained on Li Chen.
And that was worse.
Li Chen met his gaze.
Not boldly, not challengingly, but steadily, and there was something in that steadiness—not defiance, not quite submission—that made Xu Wei's expression flicker for the briefest moment, as if encountering something unexpected and mildly irritating.
"What?" Xu Wei said, tilting his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "Got something to say, or are you just staring because you don't know your place?" his tone carried a mocking curiosity, the kind that invited humiliation as entertainment.
Li Chen's fingers tightened around the beast's tail.
Blood slipped between them.
He said nothing.
His silence stretched.
Not empty.
Not weak.
But heavy.
And Xu Wei's smirk sharpened.
"Tsk," he clicked his tongue, stepping closer, boots crunching against debris, his presence pressing in, invasive, deliberate, "That look… what the hell is it supposed to mean?" his voice dropped slightly, losing its casual edge, gaining something colder, "Don't tell me you're thinking, hm?" a short, humorless laugh followed, "That'd be hilarious… a porter thinking he's worth something."
Tang Bo shifted uneasily.
His hands fidgeted.
"Captain, he didn't mean—"
"Shut up."
The words cut clean.
Tang Bo flinched.
And silence fell again, thicker this time.
Xu Wei's gaze lingered on Li Chen for a moment longer, then he exhaled through his nose, as if bored, and stepped back, waving a hand dismissively, "Move it. Clean up properly this time, or I'll have you both thrown out of the zone," his lips curled, "Not that anyone would notice if you disappeared."
He turned.
Walked away.
And just like that, the pressure lifted—but not entirely, because the echo of it remained, clinging to the air like smoke.
Tang Bo let out a breath he'd been holding, shoulders sagging, "Shit… that bastard," he muttered under his breath, glancing around as if afraid the words themselves might be punished, then looked at Li Chen, eyes searching, "You okay?"
Li Chen did not answer immediately.
He released the beast's tail.
Flexed his fingers.
Watched the blood.
Then, quietly, he spoke, voice low and rough, "We're late."
And he bent down again.
Lifted.
Dragged.
As if nothing had happened.
As if everything had.
From the edges of the alley, civilians watched.
They always did.
Drawn by the spectacle of misery, by the unspoken comfort of seeing someone lower than themselves, and their whispers wove through the air, soft yet sharp, like blades wrapped in cloth.
"He's still alive?"
"Useless people live long."
"Look at him… doesn't even react."
A woman covered her nose.
A man shook his head.
A boy laughed.
Li Chen heard them.
Of course he did.
He always did.
But he did not look.
Did not react.
Because reacting would mean acknowledging, and acknowledging would mean giving weight, and he had long since learned that some things grew stronger the more you fed them.
Still—
Something lingered.
Not anger.
Not quite.
But something close.
Tang Bo shifted again, kicking a loose stone, his voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier edge, "One day… we'll get out of this, right?" he said, half to himself, half to Li Chen, "I mean… we can't stay like this forever… right?"
Li Chen paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then he resumed walking.
And for the first time, his voice carried something faintly different, something buried deep beneath layers of restraint, "No," he said.
Tang Bo blinked.
"Huh?"
Li Chen's gaze remained forward.
Cold.
Steady.
"We won't stay like this forever."
Not hope.
Not exactly.
But something sharper.
More dangerous.
And as the alley stretched ahead, dark and unwelcoming, the weight of those words settled—not as comfort, but as a promise that had yet to reveal whether it would save him… or destroy him.
Far above, unseen by those below, something shifted.
Not in the sky.
Not in the city.
But in the unseen layers that governed power, fate, and the quiet, brutal hierarchy of existence.
And though Li Chen could not feel it yet, could not name it, could not understand the subtle tremor that passed through the world at that moment—
Something had noticed him.
Not as a man.
Not as a porter.
But as something… unfinished.
And in that unseen space, where strength was measured not by status but by potential, a faint, almost imperceptible fracture began to form.