The world, at two in the morning on the serpentine back of Shizhu Mountain, possessed a quality of silence so profound it felt like a held breath. It was a velvety, living darkness, punctuated only by the erratic chirp of cicadas and the mournful sigh of wind through the pine canopy high above. Michael guided the Wuling Sunshine around another tight bend, the headlights cutting twin, swaying tunnels through the absolute black. The missing windshield allowed the night air, cool and fragrant with damp earth and decaying leaves, to pour into the cab, carrying with it the faint, mineral scent of the mountain itself. In the passenger seat, the satchel of gold coins felt less like treasure and more like a radioactive core, humming with potential and paranoia.
"The timing," he murmured to the empty seat beside him, the words barely louder than the van's grumbling engine, "is spectacularly inconvenient." It was the understatement of the century, or perhaps of two centuries, given his peculiar circumstances. His mind, usually awhirl with cross-dimensional logistics, was currently snagged on the mundane tyranny of the clock.
If it were earlier—say, ten o'clock—he could have driven straight to Dong-ge's 'financial consultancy,' a place of tinted windows and sharp smiles where questions were few and liquidity was king. The man dealt in loans, pawns, currency exchange, and, most relevantly, gold. He'd have taken the coins, no doubt at a predatory discount, and Michael would have cash. But to arrive now, in the corpse of the night, breathless and bearing raw gold? It was an advertisement of desperation, a neon sign begging to be fleeced. Dong-ge would smell the weakness like a shark scenting blood, and the price would be ruinous.
If it were later—closer to dawn—he could have roused the perpetually weary Mr. Liu at the wholesale market, purchased a ton of rice and sundries, and ferried his ten very conspicuous, time-limited passengers back to the relative safety (and profound weirdness) of Cinder Town. But to bang on the distributor's shutters now would be the act of a madman or a profoundly rude one.
So here he was, suspended in the useless hour, a man with a fortune in antique elven gold and a van full of extradimensional soldiers, with absolutely nothing constructive to do. A strange, nostalgic pang struck him. He almost missed Tiger and his pack of neon-lit jackals. Maybe I was a bit harsh with the shoe, he mused, a wry twist to his lips. Could have saved them for a night like this. A bit of philosophical debate under the stars. The social contract. The dangers of reckless driving. The merits of a good, thick-soled sneaker.
The van crested the final rise, emerging into the small, flat clearing at the mountain's peak. The city below was a distant, glowing fungus, its light pollution casting a faint, orange halo on the underbelly of the clouds. The abrupt silence as he killed the engine was startling. Then, from the depths of his own stomach, a long, low, gurgling complaint echoed in the quiet cab.
Ah.
The idea arrived fully formed, glorious in its simplicity. He could go. He could just… go. Leave the men here, hidden, and drive down into the city. Find a proper, greasy, fluorescent-lit diner. Eat something that hadn't been dried, irradiated, or vaguely arachnid in nature. The craving, once acknowledged, became a physical ache. A week of lizard jerky, spicy strips, and the occasional, psychologically challenging roasted cave-spider had left his soul—and his palate—craving the simple, profound heresy of a grease-soaked egg fried rice.
He turned in his seat, peering into the dark cave of the van's rear. Ten pairs of eyes reflected the dim dashboard lights back at him. They were good men, in their way. Loyal, strong, increasingly less skeletal. The eldest, a man built like a siege engine named Onil, had emerged as their quiet leader. Michael had taken to calling them his "Night Crew," a joke lost on everyone but himself.
"Onil," Michael said, his voice assuming the tone of a commander delegating a mission of utmost secrecy. "I have a… reconnaissance task. Vital. You will take the men, conceal yourselves in the tree line over there." He pointed towards a particularly dense thicket of shadow. "Do not be seen. Do not make a sound. The security of this operation depends on it. Do you understand?"
Onil drew himself up, his shoulders nearly brushing the roof of the van. The lesson Michael had drilled into them—the one proper response to a direct order—came out in a deep, gravelly rumble. "Lord. It will be done."
The earnestness in that voice, the sheer, uncomplicated commitment, sent a warm flush of guilty pleasure through Michael. Good man, he thought. Might make him a sergeant. Or whatever they call it.He rewarded Onil with a brisk, approving nod.
He led them off the gravel track, into the deeper darkness beneath the pines. The air was cooler here, smelling of pine needles and damp rot. Using the heel of his shoe, he scraped a rough, lopsided circle in the thick carpet of needles. "This," he announced, with the gravitas of a wizard drawing a protective ward, "is the perimeter. No one leaves the circle until I return. Under any circumstances." He surveyed their shadowy, nodding forms. The plan felt audacious, brilliant, and slightly unhinged. A grin tugged at his mouth.
"Don't worry," he added, his tone softening. "I'll be back by first light. And I'll bring breakfast. A proper feast. So!" He clapped his hands once, softly. "What's your pleasure? Name it. Your Lord provides."
He saw their eyes gleam in the dark. There was a brief, silent conference of glances and slight head movements. Then Onil stepped forward. He held up his right hand, the thick fingers extended. Not one, not two, but three fingers. His voice was thick with yearning. "Lord. The meat. The fat one. Three fingers thick."
Michael stared. The three digits seemed to hang in the air, a symbol of pure, carnivorous desire. A hysterical laugh choked in his throat. Three-finger pork belly. The holy grail of Wang Jianshe's site canteen. It had clearly made a religious conversion out of his entire Night Crew.
For a second, he genuinely considered trying to find a 24-hour butcher. Then reality reasserted itself. The image of himself explaining the specific cut to a sleepy, bewildered meat-monger at 2:30 AM was too much.
"Onil," Michael said, the promise of a sergeant's stripe evaporating into the pine-scented air. "You are a trial." Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back to the Wuling, leaving the large man with his three hopeful fingers still hovering in the dark.
Not three miles away, in the parking lot of a shuttered roadside café, a different kind of vigil was being held.
Sitting astride his silent, chromed motorcycle, Tiger—formerly known as the Fire-Haired Fury of Shizhu Mountain—gazed up at the slice of night sky visible between the café's sign and a telephone pole. The angle was precisely forty-five degrees, chosen for its maximum melancholy. He was still wearing his full-face helmet. The reason had nothing to do with the chill and everything to do with the spectacular, tie-dye pattern of bruises and swelling that lay beneath it, a vivid cartography of his recent and utter humiliation.
Why was I born, if not to laugh?he thought, the line from a particularly angsty poem he'd half-remembered from school echoing in his aching head. Why destroy me, only to show me no pride remains?The defeat at the hands (and specifically, the right sneaker) of the Van Man and his crew of silent giants had been catastrophic. It wasn't just the physical pain, though that was considerable. It was the metaphysical wound. The mountain was theirs no longer. The very act of riding had lost its joy; every glimpse of a boxy van in their peripheral vision now caused a collective flinch and a drastic reduction in speed. The magic was gone. Their terror had a face, and it belonged to the man with the cheap cigarettes and the shockingly hard forehead.
He was wallowing in this exquisite misery when one of his lieutenants, a weaselly boy called Rat, came skidding up on his bike, his face alight with a frantic energy.
"Boss! Tiger! I saw him! The guy! The van guy!" Rat's words tumbled out in a rush. "He's at Hui Ji! The all-night place! He's alone, stuffing his face with grilled lamb kidneys! A whole plate!"
The reaction was instantaneous and primal. Tiger's body convulsed with a full-body shudder that had nothing to do with the cold. His first, instinctive thought was not of revenge, but of flight. His hand flew to the ignition, fingers fumbling for the key. Not again. Not the shoe. Please, not the shoe.Around him, the others were already kick-starting their engines, a panicked flock about to scatter.
Rat, seeing his moment of glory vanishing, shouted the crucial detail. "BOSS! He's ALONE! The big black dudes aren't with him! I checked! The van's windshield is gone—you can see right inside! It's empty!"
The world seemed to freeze. The roar of starting engines died. Tiger's hand, hovering over the ignition, stilled. He turned his helmeted head slowly towards Rat. The single, swollen eye visible through the visor was wide. "Alone?" The word was a disbelieving whisper. It couldn't be. Fortune didn't work like this. It didn't deliver your deepest, most violent desire on a platter of lamb kidneys at two in the morning.
"Swear it!" Rat hissed, his voice trembling with excitement. "Just him. A sitting duck."
Slowly, like a rusted machine groaning back to life, Tiger straightened up on his bike. The defeated slouch vanished. The old, familiar arrogance, tempered now by a burning, painful need for restitution, flooded back into his posture. He looked at the circle of his riders, their faces pale and expectant in the gloom.
"Everyone," he said, his voice dropping into a low, deadly serious register that brooked no argument. "Check your gear. Pipes, chains, everything. We follow. We wait. We pick our spot—somewhere quiet, where the streetlights are out." He paused, letting the intention settle over them like a cloak. "Tonight… it ends. One way. Or the other." The unspoken alternative hung in the air, but the meaning was clear: tonight, the score would be settled, no matter the cost. Happiness, violent and desperate, had arrived.