Dr Chinh’s fingers flew across the touchscreen, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to reach his colleague, the troubled Dr Jode. He typed a message to warn her of the sinister figures who were hunting him, and possibly her as well. As he composed it, heavy, deliberate footsteps filled the lab, echoing from the dark, deserted university halls. Dr Chinh’s pulse quickened, his breath shallow and rapid as they came ever closer.

  Just one more character; I have to warn her. He was about to hit “Send” when a deafening boom shattered the silence in the lab, a heavy-duty round penetrating the reinforced glass wall behind and screaming past his ear. The computer screen exploded in a shower of sparks, and Dr Chinh’s eardrum ruptured from the shockwave. He stumbled forward as he clutched his ringing ear, feeling blood streaming out of it. He looked back and saw a shadowy silhouette standing outside the room, kicking at the lower corners of the shattered glass panel.

  No, no, no, no…

  The glass hit the floor in a single piece before shattering into fragments that scattered across the cold tiles, skittering away as the figure stepped into the lab.

  Dr Chinh grabbed the hard drive on the tabletop and hobbled into the storage closet, knowing his pursuers wouldn’t show him any mercy. Broomsticks and cleaning agents loomed behind him; the elderly scientist tried to stifle his quivering mouth shut with his hands, but it was too late. Through the slats on the door, he watched the shadowy figure first check the destroyed computer, then approach the closet, clearly drawn to the unmistakable sound of his panicked breathing-turned-sobs.

  Seconds later, the door creaked open to reveal the monstrous intruder standing in the dim light. He grabbed Dr Chinh and hurled him to the ground with a sickening thud, the hard drive slipping from his grasp and sliding across the floor. With a sinister grin, the large man retrieved it, turned it over in his hands, and shot a hole clean through it.

  ‘P-Please… d-don’t hurt me,’ Dr Chinh begged. ‘Everything I had was in that drive… I promise I’ll tell you who I contacted!’

  The man towered over him, his icy gaze sending pins and needles to the doctor’s skin. Then he withdrew a wickedly sharp knife and tested its edge on his thumb. All the while, Dr Chinh sobbed and pleaded, babbling out names. But it wouldn’t save him from the gruesome fate ahead.

  ‘Are you sure? In Ho Man Ting? Han, you better not be joking like last time,’ Jin said with a hint of scepticism through Han’s earpiece.

  ‘Brother, I’m dead serious. Some street kids told me they’d seen Yang members lurking around the square for the past three sleep-cycles. Installing speakers in the shadows. The kids think they’re setting up for some sort of gathering.’

  ‘A gathering? I hope it’s not another bombing.’

  ‘Unlikely. Ho Man Ting is the cultural capital of the south. They’ve got too many supporters down there. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the southern royals are in bed with the Yang.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t think they’re planning another attack. So, what could it be?’ Jin mused aloud.

  ‘I hope we find out before it’s too late…’ Han wiped his sweaty forehead and took a deep breath. ‘And even those scientists returning from Chuan Wan Dam… everything here pointed to more Yang.’

  ‘We should inform Ying. She’ll know what to do,’ Jin suggested. ‘Where are you right now? Did you watch the live broadcast of that scum Jian’s crucifixion?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw it. Good riddance, those Kingmakers finally did something,’ Han said in a flat voice. ‘I’m in Kam Shan right now but I’ll head back to base and see if we can get a few of our Tai Li on the ground in Ho Man Ting. In the meantime, contact Ying and fill her in on this new intel.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. May the Light save us all, brother,’ Jin said in a subdued voice as he disconnected the call.

  Taking a final drag from his tabac-stick, Han flicked the glowing stub into a puddle on the cracked, dark floor. His hands dove into the pockets of his office trousers, looking for a square of mint.

  RS8 pocket cannon, melee multi-tool, my disguise kit… and no mint. Oh, whatever, Han thought with a sigh. Shrugging off his concerns, he looked around and surveyed his surroundings.

  He stood on a busy avenue on the 88th floor of a groundscraper in Kam Shan, the largest district in the far Western Reaches of Kowloon. With the work-cycle in full swing, the streets buzzed with activity. Han pulled out his handheld computer, a sophisticated portable device that allowed him to communicate, access the Kowlooni network and even play some games when the mood struck. This time, he wanted to double-check the route back to the Luens in District Yau.

  The path was straightforward. A few streets ahead lay the Yangtze mega-highway, where he could cut through Hao Ma’s diner to the Ku-Ping Gai highway. From there, the journey on foot would take many hours, but a large PC-Carriage exchange on Ku-Ping Gai could speed things up. That route would lead him into District Yau, straight to Ji Sia City, home of the Luen family leadership.

  With his route in mind, Han set off, pressing the play button on the music application on his handheld device. His earpiece flooded his head with the pulsating beats of Ji Sia Rap, a unique music style born from his district – one of Han’s many guilty pleasures. As Yau’s top special operative and law enforcer, he knew he shouldn’t indulge in such violent music, especially those tracks from the deadliest criminal organisations in Yau. The current song was produced by The Roaring Fifth triads, an elusive and powerful criminal family operating out of Yau’s bustling capital, Ji Sia.

  Han subconsciously mouthed the lyrics as the rapper DaoTaoFengi boasted about slaying a member of the rival Yuan Nanhai crime family. The music drew him in, despite the knowledge that he was listening to the gritty realities of Ji Sia City’s underworld, perhaps a reflection of the failures of Yau law enforcement.

  “Leupa hau Ji Sia do, Nanhai pak zokkong,

  Cuo Qiangdao wan do gok, zon ta gunguo ja go zo-ing!

  Do guongwan, jau zip, ketai muo fong zoyeng,

  Tai kwan go zi ci, fer jin mou, Nanhai hoi zooeng!”

  [Caught him lacking in Ji Sia, Nanhai boy hit a wall,

  5th Bandits round the block, turned his shit talk to a backup call!

  Swords splash and we dash, his bros ain’t quick at all,

  When they hit the corner, Nanhai boy’s breath was gone!]

  The aggressive lyrics painted a vivid picture of DaoTaoFengi and his fellow 5th Bandits confronting a member of the Yuan Nanhai on the streets of Ji Sia. Han couldn’t help but bop his head to the rhythm of the gritty storytelling – listening to how the 5th Bandits chased their gang rival down, stabbing him in a frenzy while the doomed Nanhai’s backup was still on the phone.

  Despite the grim nature of the tale, the accent struck a familiar chord, a sound from his home city. Out here, in the Western Reaches of Kowloon, he felt worlds away from the core districts, both culturally and linguistically. The local Yue accents – the standard language of Kowloon – sounded strikingly different and unfamiliar to his ears. After an hour and a half of navigating the bustling Yangtze mega-highway, with its dazzling display of lights and lanterns, and bombarded with countless advertisements along the way, Han finally arrived at Hao Ma’s diner. He was mere meters away from the district border, where Kam Shan met District Tei Lung.

  The diner was wedged between a hair saloon on one side and a narrow, sneaky entrance to a sex shop on the other. Han approached the sliding doors, noticing a beggar slouching to his right, and a line of prostitutes marketing their bodies on the left. The grimy automatic doors swished open, and the world of the busy diner, with its hushed underhanded deals, deadly gossip and lovers seeking a secret rendezvous welcomed him.

  Dressed in plain office clothes, Han went unnoticed as he walked past the L-shaped bar. The patrons, seated in high swivel chairs, drowned their sorrows with cans of Shyou-Shuya mixed with whatever drugs they’d bought from the alleys opposite.

  Han approached the staff area, where the dark and almost rave-like ambience of the diner, with its fast-paced electronic music in the background, transformed into the bustle of a busy kitchen. His shoes tapped on the dirty, greenish-grey square tiles, while overworked chefs, waiter boys and cleaners zigzagged through the kitchen. Pots and pans clattered and taps streamed with water as the diner worked through its peak hour. No one paid any mind to the tall, pale man with the chiselled cheeks and disciplined posture. Han had learned early on that as long as he looked like he belonged, a lot of private areas were accessible to him.

  Pushing open the rear door with a creak, he emerged into the back alley that led to the colossal Ku-Ping Gai highway. This mega-structure, a suspended walkway on the 67th level, wound through the towering groundscrapers of Kam Shan, Tei Lung, Layo Nrok, and eventually his home, Yau. This route was as busy as it was ancient, but a convenient path to get to Central Kowloon. Just as the door slammed shut behind Han, his ringtone shrilled from his earpiece once more.

  ‘Jin Kan is calling. Jin Kan is calling. Jin Kan is—’

  Han tapped the side of his earpiece, and in came Jin’s agitated, angry voice.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  ‘I just got off the line with Ying. They fucking stole him!’ he said in a rush.

  ‘What? Slow down, brother,’ Han urged. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Jian! The fucking Kingmaker dicksuckers took his body. There’s a King in critical condition at the scene, and apparently, General Denzhen’s own cumstain is involved, too.’

  ‘You’re joking?! A Kingmaker in critical condition? Critical critical? If a Kingmaker dies, we’re going to be in a world of shit… One hasn’t died on duty since—’

  ‘Since the bloody District Rebellions, I know, 25 annui-cycles ago,’ Jin groaned.

  ‘Have you heard anything else from Ying? Were any other Kingmakers hurt?’ Han asked once more.

  ‘Why the hell do you care? It sounds like you’re more worried about them than us! They stole our fucking trophy!’ Jin snapped.

  ‘What… Because they took Jian? Brother, a Kingmaker might die on Yau grounds, for crying out loud! I don’t think you realise what this could mean for us. We can’t afford to get in over our heads with them—’

  ‘Ying Luen is calling, Ying Luen is—’

  Jin spoke over the robotic voice announcing another call from Han’s end, ‘The Kingmakers have trampled over us for far too long now; they sit idle while the Yang prance around our street—’

  ‘-calling, Ying Luen is calling—’

  ‘Hold on, Jin, Ying’s calling me. I’ll ring you back,’ Han said.

  ‘Don’t bother. Just do what she says and I’ll see you back at base.’

  ‘Light be with you, brother.’ Han cut the line and answered Ying’s call.

  ‘Ying, talk to me.’

  She sighed. ‘From the sound of your voice, I think you’ve already heard what just happened here.’

  ‘What’s really going on, Ying? The Emperor’s nephew? A Kingmaker in critical condition? Jian’s body taken?’

  ‘It’s a shitshow, Han. Lok and a few of our boys have left to check out the situation themselves, but the Kingmakers established a presence scary fast, and they’re not letting anyone in. From what we’ve pieced together, it appears a few Jian loyalists among the Kings wanted to give him their own funeral – a cremation. Somehow, the Emperor’s nephew got tangled in the mess, and the loyalists didn’t take kindly to seeing the executioner of their beloved Jian,’ Ying said in a clipped tone. ‘Then a fight broke out.’

  ‘So, the injured Kingmaker?’ Han asked.

  ‘Lok reckons it was the Yaozhi who struck the blow… Kingmaker fighting Kingmaker… What times we live in, eh Han?’

  ‘I’m still struggling to believe it…’

  ‘I need you back at base. Jin told me you were on your way. And mentioned about your recent trip down to Ho Man Ting.’

  ‘What do you make of that, Ying? Speakers being set up in the shadows?’ Han asked, seeking her counsel.

  ‘It’s probably nothing… but my gut says otherwise. Start planning with your team for reconnaissance around Ho Man Ting Square; see what’s going on. Last time I ignored my intuition, it cost Yau tens of thousands of lives.’

  Han’s mouth twisted. He knew she was referring to the tragic Yau bombings last annui-cycle, a brutal suicide attack orchestrated by the Yang that had levelled five entire groundscrapers in the Nanxin precinct of Ji Sia.

  ‘I understand. I’m a few hours from base. As soon as I’m back, I’ll get the rest and start planning for the Square as you asked. See you soon.’

  ‘Thank you, Han.’ The line went dead.

  Han continued his walk to the Ku-Ping Gai highway, merging in with the flow of foot-traffic.

  Above the sea of bobbing heads, Han spotted a tall, white pole with the bright neon orange light of the ‘PC-C’ interchange. Standing for ‘Public Carriage-Commute’, the PC-C was the only mode of public transportation available to ordinary Kowloonis. While the Tai Li received generous funding from the Luen siblings, they weren’t powerful enough to have their own exclusive transportation network like the Kingmakers. Han usually avoided the PC-C with its heavy crowds, stench of body odour and exhaust fumes, and sounds of people losing their last meal out the window. However, this time, his mission had brought him to the southern capital of Ho Man Ting City, and then up to the Kam Dong subdistrict of Kam Shan, the farthest district in the west. For discreet assignments like these, the PC-C was his only means of travel.

  Han entered the worn-down interchange. Poverty and despair hung in the air as beggars reached out with pleading eyes and grasping hands. Packs of young hooligans milled around wearing hoodies, stylish sneakers and tight latex pants, sporting side bags across their chests which Han guessed would be filled with either illicit pills, knives, spray cans, or all three.

  The law enforcement of District Tei Lung, known as the Lung Hai gangsters, strutted around the area in their patrols. They wore sleek, form-fitting bodysuits made of reinforced fabric. Han watched a patrol pin a young woman against the wall and make an arrest. She looked to be in her late teens, with pink and green hair, faded face tattoos and pocked skin likely from drug abuse, snarling and swearing as the gangsters aggressively cuffed her with Xhiku links.

  Han had heard the brutal reputation of the Lung Hai gangsters, recalling multiple charges of civilian violence against Lord Wai-Kit, lord of District Tei Lung. Despite the Lung Hais’ menacing presence, the interchange buzzed with activity, echoing the frenetic pace of the western side of Kowloon.

  Among the throngs of people, Han walked up to a wall lined with ticket dispensers and dropped five heavy coins into the machine. The machine lit up with its blue touchscreen, foggy and greasy from continual use and infrequent cleans. Han tapped on his destination: “Yau, Ji Sia Station 45,” and a small paper ticket dispensed out of a slot. Just as he turned to face the tracks, a carriage rumbled to a stop. He braced himself as he prepared to step in, eager to leave the sprawl of the Western Reaches behind.

  Back at the Yu Tower, the four captains found reprieve on the 16th floor of the towering Yu fortress after a long cycle of training centurions. Qi Juagong, captain of the fourth centurion cohort, sucked on his tabac-stick, the ember glowing in the small lounge room. His sharp eyes tracked Shen Li, captain of the third cohort, who was sharing a funny story about a troublesome centurion.

  ‘So, did the whelp return after his tantrum?’ Captain Aiguo, the stalwart head of the second cohort, asked. He leaned forward in his seat, his fingertips grazing the singular Yue character tattooed on his right cheekbone.

  Shen chuckled. ‘Not immediately. The poor lad was ashamed. Didn’t show up for sparring for another 14-cycles.’ He paused and raised a mug of tangy ora juice to his lips.

  ‘That takes me back,’ Captain Tien Ja, the elder commander of the revered first cohort, mused. ‘I got my ass handed to me by a girl during my centurion days. It was more than a little embarrassing!’ He ran a hand through his short, pink-dyed hair, chuckling at the memory.

  ‘When you were a centurion?’ Shen guffawed. ‘I remember that; I think I was swimming in my father’s balls back then, Gramps!’ The three captains laughed heartily, yet Tien didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘I know! You were such a pain in my balls that your mother and I worked all night to get you out!’

  As soon as the joke clicked, Captain Shen’s face fell dead. The other two erupted into laughter, while Captain Tien smirked with satisfaction at the burn.

  Once the laughter started dying down, Captain Qi of the fourth cohort, a silent observer until now, leaned back in his seat and cleared his throat. The room fell silent, the other captains’ attention turning towards him. Qi took one final drag from his tabac-stick, the ember quickly climbing to its soft filter, and flicked it toward the table, where it landed in the ashtray with a clink.

  ‘Jian is dead. You’ve all heard the news, I presume,’ Qi’s voice was low, laden with a grimness that sucked the joviality out of the room like a vacuum. The other captains nodded.

  ‘May his soul find peace amongst the Light,’ Aiguo murmured.

  The four captains sat in a moment of silence for the man they all remembered as their wise master and older brother. Jian had trained two of them personally.

  In the midst of this, Captain Shen’s voice broke through. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘What we do…’ A commanding yet youthful voice echoed through the room, causing the four captains to spin towards the entrance of the lounge.

  ‘… is remember Jian the best way we can. Whether it be as a friend, or as a traitor.’

  General Cao, a broad-shouldered figure of formidable authority, strode into the room, every step resonating with power and resolve. The captains stumbled to their feet and gave a reflexive bow of respect to the green, trench-coated general, who sported a single large pauldron on his left shoulder, its golden armour reaching his elbow.

  ‘At ease, sirs,’ General Cao instructed the four.

  Straightening up, the captains turned their full attention to the young general.

  ‘Jian’s death is a monumental event, both a victory and a tremendous loss. General Denzhen is arranging a discreet memorial in his honour. It goes without saying Emperor Puyin and General Qin Shi would be less than pleased to hear about it.’

  Captain Qi raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Who else will be present, sir? And where will this memorial take place?’

  ‘The 16th level training dojo. Only a handful of brothers and sisters are attending, limited to his closest Kingmaker kin. I won’t be present,’ Cao admitted, a note of discomfort in his voice. ‘I find it hard to reconcile the idea of honouring a traitor, but I respect Jian’s influence here. His relationships in this tower were forged long before I was ever a Kingmaker. I’m only assisting General Denzhen to spread the word, nothing more. Be there at the dimming if that man meant anything to you.’

  With a respectful nod to the captains, the young general marched out of the room. The captains exchanged glances, silent agreement passing between them. They wouldn’t miss this memorial for anything.

  ‘I must be on my way,’ Captain Qi broke the silence, a hint of regret in his tone. ‘My wife is expecting me. I’ll see you all later on the 16th level.’

  ‘I have a weapons class in an hour. Got to prepare, but I’ll see you all too,’ Captain Tien added, the weight of responsibility clear in his voice.

  With firm handshakes, the two captains departed, leaving Aiguo and Shen alone in the hushed room.

  ‘Off somewhere too, Shen?’ Aiguo asked.

  ‘I’ve got a few centurions to tutor. But I’ll see you for the memorial.’

  Centurion Baoyan stood atop the ladder, his spray gun hissing as he painted the brick mural in the Yu Tower’s lobby. The cool, metallic scent of the spray mingled with the hum of the tower. Every stroke brought the face he was painting closer to life: bold eyes, sharp features, and an unmistakable air of hope.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s your turn for this week’s mural?’ a voice called from below. Startled, Baoyan twisted around, nearly losing his balance. His breath caught in his mask, muffling his response as he yanked it off and let it hang from his neck. ‘Captain!’ he blurted.

  Captain Shen stood at the foot of the ladder, arms crossed as he gazed up at the mural. Baoyan couldn’t tell if the ageing master was impressed or just curious.

  ‘Yessir!’ he said in a rush. ‘I put in my name some time ago, finally got selected!’

  Captain Shen nodded as he stared at the unfinished mural. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Ji Mingchi, sir. He’s being crowned as the new Lord of District Pik soon.’

  ‘Pik…’ Shen’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s one place in the East you don’t hear much about. So, what happened to his father… Lord Gaochi, wasn’t it?’

  Baoyan took a deep breath. ‘No one knows. He just died suddenly. But it’s no secret the damage he’s done to Pik, sir. Wasn’t a popular Lord at all. His son is a welcome change. He’s vowed to tackle the famine his father exacerbated.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Shen muttered, his arms still crossed as he studied the mural. ‘Well, here’s hoping you’re right about Mingchi.’

  Baoyan turned back to look at his work, feeling a surge of hope for his downtrodden district, despite the East being known as Kowloon’s shithole. There’s hardly any beautiful art that represents Eastern culture…

  The sounds of casual laughter approached as three Kingmakers bantered and strolled up behind Captain Shen. ‘We allowing dong’fa on our walls now, capt’?’ one of them sneered as they walked past.

  Baoyan froze, his fingers gripping the spray can tighter.

  Captain Shen turned and watched the laughing trio walk away. He glanced back at Baoyan and raised his brows. Cheeks burning, the centurion’s chin dropped to his chest.

  ‘I’ll deal with them,’ Shen stated as he set off after them without waiting for a reply.

  Left alone on the ladder, Baoyan swallowed a knot of frustration. The slur stung like a slap across his face. Dongfa’shu – the racist phrase that likened Easterners to the large rodents plaguing their local districts.

  He forced a hollow laugh. At least they knew who Mingchi was.

  With a sigh, he tugged his mask back on and resumed spraying the final details of Mingchi’s face. As the colours swirled and the figure solidified, he couldn’t help but wonder whether this mural would change anything. And if it did, would anyone even care?

  Maybe it doesn’t matter. But I’ll do it for my people back home, since no one else here will.