The black mass of Scavengers vanished in the blink of an eye.
The Backstreets' Deep Night was over.
They weren't permitted to move in daylight—more precisely, you could only ever see those humanoid sapient things during the Backstreets' Deep Night.
Lovi withdrew from Xin Xu Yuan for the moment.
Decades of experiments by T Corp hadn't merely granted the Head Chef inhuman strength.
Perhaps W Corp deserved some credit too? That beast—built like a rhinoceros—could take fatal injuries without losing the ability to act.
As if his condition had been frozen at a particular point in time…
Lovi didn't understand the power games between Wings. He had neither the authority nor the interest to dig into it.
But when you were facing a product of combined technologies from multiple corporations, it was wiser to pull back a step and avoid the edge.
"Good. The kid's safe."
Through the window, watching the Head Chef's mangled remains collapse with a thunderous crash, Lovi narrowed his eyes.
The next step was much simpler—take the boy home.
"Are you certain you can protect him, Mr. Lovi?"
"…Didn't I tell you to go back?"
Richard stood behind Lovi, hands folded over his lower abdomen.
"We're being watched."
"By whom?"
"A Wing's commission. Taken over by the Seven Association."
"Do you know why?"
"Since last month, the personnel movements in Seven Association's Southern Section Two have been… abnormal."
Richard paused, then spread his hands.
"You know—I thought those incompetent drunks were only after me. After all, I've gotten along with them… rather poorly."
For once, he used words that weren't exactly refined.
Lovi sighed and adjusted his collar. "Either way—"
"We can't drag that child into this… If he stays here, he'll die." Richard nodded to the green-clad old man and cut him off. "I'll keep an eye on the perimeter. As for anything related to the Wings… only you can handle it."
A standard fifteen-degree bow. Bend. Salute.
…
Ke Ming lay sprawled on the floor, staring blankly at the Chef's corpse.
Shriveled muscles. Loose skin. No matter how you looked at it, it was an old man in his seventies or eighties.
A pocket watch…
He flipped it open. Tucked into the lid was a family photograph.
A boy about his age. A slightly younger girl. A man who wasn't handsome, but whose features were straight and firm.
Only the woman was missing.
A memory the Chef refused to touch.
I have to leave. The mad butcher who killed the Chef is still nearby.
Ke Ming clasped his hands together, lowered his head, and silently prayed for the Chef.
It was his mother's habit—show respect to the living, and pray for the dead.
And pray for yourself too.
Fair is fair.
He packed in a panic, stuffed the conspicuous coat into his bag, and changed into a cook's uniform.
On the chef's hat, three bold characters were stitched clearly:
Xin Xu Yuan.
Ugly as sin. The Chef really did have terrible taste.
Hopefully the name still carries weight outside.
He had to flee—far away from the lunatic killer who butchered the Chef. The farther, the better.
The nearby blocks were definitely out. He had to run somewhere even farther.
And he couldn't use the front door. There were surely countless eyes watching him from the shadows.
Ke Ming grabbed the small case of kitchen tools the Chef had given him and smashed his way out through a window.
He used his prosthetic to shield against the spray of glass. Before landing, he hooked into the wall to slow himself, then dropped cleanly from the second floor.
From here on out, there was only one option:
Run—without direction.
…
Fleeing.
No matter what, a long trek was something a six-year-old simply couldn't endure.
After more than an hour of hysterical sprinting, Ke Ming tripped and slammed face-first into the ground.
He was still in Alley Twenty-Three—but several blocks away from Xin Xu Yuan now.
Temporarily safe.
But a pack of rats had picked up his scent.
A dozen or so skinny men in crude clothing, filthy from head to toe, had their eyes on him.
The name of Xin Xu Yuan didn't mean much this far out.
A child—a clean-looking child—could fetch a high price.
And if not, they could carve him up and at least die full.
Surely they wouldn't lose to a five- or six-year-old kid who was already exhausted.
Ke Ming forced himself upright using the prosthetic, but the lactic acid burn left him barely able to move.
Their green-glinting eyes made him think of wild animals.
Fire was the best answer to beasts—but he wasn't his father. He couldn't swing a straight sword and cleave out a blade of flame.
All he had left was a kitchen knife—
and a body that wouldn't obey.
I messed up. I shouldn't have run blindly.
Ke Ming leaned forward, trying to look more aggressive.
"If you don't want to end up as a dish, back off," he threatened, imitating the Chef. "I'm not interested in you—there's not even a few ounces of meat on your whole bodies."
The rats didn't answer. They only crept closer.
"If you lay a hand on me, the Chef won't—" Ke Ming tried a different angle, but regretted it before he even finished.
What he'd just said amounted to: If you let me go back, you're dead.
And besides, he was bluffing.
The Chef was already dead—killed by someone, he didn't even know who.
Suddenly, the rats moved.
The lead man raised a rusty cleaver and hacked at him with no technique at all.
Ke Ming reacted on instinct—twisted aside and drove his fist into the man's chest.
Like a kite with its string cut, the cleaver flew from the man's hand and plunged into the ground. He spat blood-foam, went flying backward, and slammed into a wall—motionless.
"…If you want to die, come on."
Ke Ming stared down the remaining rats, forcing himself to look calm.
He had no real fighting experience. All the Chef could teach him was how to get things done with brute force—and in his current condition, he was only barely holding himself together.
"Go on," he taunted again, while secretly praying they weren't brave. "Scared?"
He wanted them to value their lives the way he did—panic and scatter.
The rats glanced at each other, looking like they might retreat.
Ke Ming stepped forward hard and drove the prosthetic into the ground with all his strength.
The pavement cracked. Pebbles burst upward and sprayed toward the group.
A few unlucky men were cut open by sharp stone fragments—and their starving companions swarmed them immediately.
Good. Just like I thought.
Ke Ming bared his teeth the way the Chef did, wearing a grin that made the skin crawl, and advanced step by step.
"Not much meat, sure… but some customers like chewy dead flesh. And organs can be made into something passable…"
The rats shrank back, and Ke Ming kept advancing.
Got them. They swallowed the bluff.
"Kids—he's bluffing."
An old, raspy voice drifted from deep in the alley. Ke Ming jolted and turned his head.
In that single moment of distraction—
the rats surged in.
He fought like hell, smashing a few unlucky skulls, but his exhausted body couldn't keep up.
His movements slowed. He couldn't swing his fists anymore. Couldn't dodge.
Something heavy cracked into the back of his head.
His vision went dark.
He lost consciousness.
....
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