‘And the sky was stilled black, stripped of colour’s breath. His creation gazed upwards in horror — like a child before a television screen staring at the static of a cold, dead channel.’


    -The Book of Lumen, Chapter 1, Verse 2:1


    The two old friends blew on their hot drinks. Zhao Fagun’s tea shop, a tranquil oasis on the 27th level of the Gujin complex, offered Rui and Fung a brief respite from the chaos of life in Kowloon.


    They settled back into their seats in the outdoor balcony area of the tea shop, shaking their heads as they both discussed the struggling economy. The winds whistled over the railing beside their table, carrying scents of cooked mushrooms, incense, wet clothes, and garbage.


    ‘Have you seen all the flashy new tech coming out lately?’ Rui asked as he traced the rim of his teacup with his finger.


    ‘My doctor said that new healing stuff moves through the air like a ghost. I swear on my ma’s life, he did.’Rui’s eyes widened at the wild, fantastic claim of invisible technology.


    ‘You’re pulling my leg, Fung. That’s how those new medical machines work? My doctor lost his job last month. Even the nerds aren’t being spared. We’re next, I’m sure of it.’


    Fung shook his head and clicked his teeth. ‘Can’t the Emperor see the damage he’s causing? Countless people jobless…’ He snapped his fingers in the air. ‘Just like that.’


    SMASH! From the quiet interior of the tea shop came the sound of crockery crashing to the floor. However, no patrons turned their heads to acknowledge the break in normalcy, despite Zhao shouting at a worker. Everyone knew better and minded their own business. Whispers circulated that the tea shop transformed into a pleasure den for the Luen boys after the dimming, the commencement of Kowloon’s 14-hour nighttime.


    Of course, no one could confirm this, but the floor-to-ceiling poles in the backroom of the shop kind of gave it away.


    ‘Emperor Puyin is one thing, but the Yangs…they’re next level,’ Rui continued.


    Fung, momentarily distracted by a young woman walking past their table, leaned forward. ‘Sorry, I missed the last bit. What was that?’


    ‘The Yang. I said they’re next level,’ Rui repeated. ‘They’re saying the Emperor has been bolstering his Zhaisheng with secret tech from surface civilisations. If you can believe it.’


    ‘Hah, surface civilisations!’ Fung scoffed. ‘I’d sooner believe the prophet was standing behind me than the Yang’s stories of people living on the surface. They’re conmen on their best days, and murderers on their worst.’


    ‘Yang or not, I’m up to my neck. Food prices are soaring, and now taxes are going up again, too. Emperor Puyin’s Zhaisheng isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. What good is a so-called renaissance if we all starve to death first?’


    Fung pursed his lips as he looked at the small digital panel on his tea cup.


    60 °C.


    He finally took a sip, grimacing. ‘Shit, that’s hot,’ he mouthed as he flicked the temperature display on his cup. It glitched to an altogether different reading, 121 °C.


    Rui gazed blankly at a shirt that hung on a line between two buildings on their left. ‘I…I think I might start scalping food, Fung. Sell for a profit down the line. I know it’s forbidden, but I’d rather do it now before things become desperate.’


    Fung whistled. ‘You’re playing with fire. If the Ji Sia find out, you’ll get no food at all.’


    ‘I’ll be careful. News of an incurable virus on the doorstep of the Huang Wildlands, famine ravaging the east, and the Yang winning more public favour than ever before…when everything collapses, and trust me, it will, I want to be ready. I suggest you do the same, brother — ’


    BANG!


    The sound of a gunshot tore through the quiet ambience, bouncing between the cramped groundscrapers as people from nearby tables whipped their heads around. The two friends followed suit, their eyes scanning the maze of buildings, searching for the source far beyond the tea shop’s outdoor area.


    ‘What in the Light’s name was that?’ Rui exclaimed, half out of his seat.


    Little did he know, the bullet he and his friend had just heard, barely 500 metres away, would turn out to be the most significant bullet fired in Kowloon’s recent history.


    ****


    ‘ARGGGHHH! FUCK! MY LEG!!’


    Blood was splattered in garish streaks across the rough ground, staining the terrace red from the man’s mangled, fleshy stump. Keung advanced towards his quarry, watching him groan in agony as blood pumped out from his severed right leg.


    What a sorry sight. The great Jian…now just a crying, dying rebel.


    As Keung drew nearer, his hand cannon gripped firmly in both hands yet pointed downwards in a gesture of mercy, the air grew heavy with the weight of impending finality. The fatally wounded man, in a last act of defiance or perhaps a plea for recognition, rolled over to face him. It had been almost two annui-cycles since they’d laid eyes on one another.


    Jian’s gaunt face no longer had the strong, angled planes of a proud general. The patchy stubble and fuzzy moustache were at odds with the neatly groomed, clean-shaven man Keung remembered.


    ‘They don’t know…you don’t know, Keung. God himself, I’ve touched his Light. It was so beautiful. The Sun…it was just as Dong said it would be. We need to return to the surface…’


    The muscles of Keung’s jaw tightened with anguish as he reaffirmed a truth he’d always been told.


    ‘You know that’s not possible,’ he almost pleaded.


    Jian’s expression dropped. Then he relaxed his body and chuckled. Sweat dripped from his hairline as his exhales turned sharp.


    ‘Your man missed my head on purpose, you know that, right?’ Jian gazed past Keung into the vast horizon of District Yau’s groundscrapers, where Shing was nestled somewhere amongst the terraces.


    But Keung didn’t offer any response.


    ‘They still don’t trust you?’ Jian asked again, provocation in his voice.


    Keung remained tight-lipped, his hands trembling and his breath shallow as he internally warred with what came next. The time for idle chatter was over, yet he struggled to lift his hand cannon to take aim.


    ‘Get on with it, Kingmaker,’ Jian muttered, staring at Keung’s unmoving hand. Keung commanded his arms to rise, but all they did was tremble.


    Jian frowned in confusion, shakily propping himself up on his elbow. He sneered, ‘You’re going to leave me here to bleed dry, aren’t you? You’re all fucking tyrants after all.’ Jian’s breathing quickened, on the verge of hyperventilation. His face contorted in pain, his eyes growing more weary and unfocused with each passing second.


    Keung took a deep breath and somewhat calmed his shaking. He raised his weapon towards Jian’s head, his knuckles white. ‘I suppose I’m still trying to fit in.’


    Jian looked relieved and slowly closed his eyes as Keung looked away and pulled the trigger.


    After hearing the dreaded crack of Jian’s skull hitting the ground, Keung braved a look.


    As he watched Jian’s fingers unfurl, he wrinkled his nose at the putrid smell of gases and liquids leaving his quarry’s body. He had never seen a corpse grow cold right after death.


    Suddenly, a familiar voice came from behind him.


    ‘It’s done. Let’s return to the tower, sir.’


    Cheng, Keung’s trusted partner and a Kingmaker of <mark>tribunary</mark> rank, approached and stood beside him. They shared a moment of silence for the battered man lying before them. Cheng’s pale, clean-shaven face was haggard and glistened with sweat. Despite his exhaustion, his hair remained neatly tucked under his peaked officer’s cap, the epitome of an exemplary, composed Kingmaker.


    Keung felt Cheng’s hand on his shoulder but shrugged it off and turned away, deliberately avoiding Cheng’s gaze. He walked towards the open doors at the other end of the terrace, the very doors through which he and Jian had burst just minutes earlier.


    Cheng jogged to catch up.


    ‘Whatever comes of this, I have your back, sir. As always. Don’t forget Jian was a traitor and a mass murderer. You saved many lives in the future by making sure his ended today.’


    Keung stayed silent, still unwilling to discuss what just happened.


    ‘Is there anything you wanted to talk about, sir?’ Cheng asked as they navigated over loose pipework and abrupt elevations in the terrace towards the exit.


    ‘What will they do to his body?’ Keung asked.


    ‘Well, sir…It varies from region to region. We’re in Yau country, and they have a special case for executed Yangs. They’re going to tie Jian’s body to a crucifix for every man and woman to see. Until the first signs of rot. But that’s not our concern; our job is done. After our team reports back, let’s all have a round of drinks at The Crescent. This is cause for —’


    ‘Drinks? I’m thinking about how we should mourn Jian, not partying,’ Keung took off his officer’s cap and ran his hand through his sweaty hair. ‘Jian was a devout Dongist; he would want us to float him down the Memorial Pipes and into the Light! Not have Kowloon become his audience as he decays! How sacrilegious!’


    Cheng nodded. ‘You’re right, sir. It definitely is a perversion of Dongism, but by design. The Luen’s will take every opportunity to punish Jian, even if it’s in the afterlife. There’s nothing we can do about it now.’


    Keung shook his head.


    Death should be the final sanctuary for every soul tormented by the cruelty of life. Not whatever this is.


    ****


    After descending two flights of stairs, the two Kingmakers were confronted with a rusted, green door ajar on their right. Cheng shouldered it open for his superior, and through it was the bustle of Kowloon in all its glory — an overpopulated, underground society plagued by poverty.


    Wide corridors with low ceilings layered with pipes, wires in an impossible mesh, and yellowed halogen lights, stretched before them. People walked shoulder to shoulder in and out of corridors of different widths, bordered by storefronts. The flooring, once clean, white tiles, was now a worn-out brown path that had eroded with the constant wear of pedestrian footsteps over hundreds of years.


    Keung and Cheng finally stepped onto the 91st floor, the highest in the current building, called “groundscrapers” by Kowloonis. The air was filled with the cacophony of bustling crowds, shouting vendors, and the relentless noise of construction. Homeless children darted through crowds, disguising their pickpocketing as games of tag. Dongist preachers, in their reflective silver robes, called for penance. Mobile food vendors carried large trays of street food supported by ropes slung around their necks, their makeshift stalls bouncing against their bodies as they responded to customers calling them over. The smell of sizzling spices in oil mingled with the stench of garbage and sweat. Keung noticed a few individuals quickly pulling masks over their noses and slipping into the shadows, their eyes tracking the two Kingmakers.


    This wasn’t some busy office building, an apartment, or a shopping centre; the long corridors of these buildings were the actual streets of Kowloon. Most pedestrians travelled through groundscrapers due to the overcrowding in the narrow, ground-level alleys.


    The sprawl of Kowloon saw almost no gaps between its groundscrapers. Their close proximity meant walls were often knocked down and bridged onto their neighbouring buildings, connecting hundreds of different groundscrapers into a single, intricate network of connected streets and highways.


    The constant flow of people made for an oppressive atmosphere, but Keung and Cheng moved undeterred. Their Kingmaker status, signified by their dark trench coats with golden-yellow stripes, peaked officer caps and air of authority parted the sea of people before them.


    Eventually, they arrived at the entrance for the King Rail docking port. An inconspicuous locked door with no knob or handle, right in the middle of the busy corridor. Keung swiped his King Rail key fob near the door and it slowly swung open for them. They slipped in before anyone took notice, the entrances to these ports a close-kept secret. Inside was small, nondescript room with nothing but some storage cabinets, a small computer, and a glass sliding doors leading to the suspended tracks.


    This monorail system, called the King Rail, carved a direct path through the groundscrapers and into key areas of Kowloon. It was the first of its kind, granting speedy travel into some of the most densely populated areas ever known to humanity. Despite its efficiency, it remained locked away from everyone but the Kingmakers.


    Constructed less than two decades ago, this transport system had stood strong against the increasing malcontent of the public, its white tracks intermittently revealing themselves between gleaming groundscrapers. Its exclusivity soon turned into loathing when the rails became a death trap for those who stood on its tracks and couldn’t move out of the way in time. Communities that had existed for hundreds of generations, now bore the scar of a King Rail cutting through them, the locals having learnt to move away even if they felt the subtlest of vibrations.


    ‘Will you, or — ?’ Keung indicated the small screen next to the sliding glass doors.


    ‘Let me, sir.’


    Cheng entered their destination. They only waited a few minutes until their monorail arrived at the port. First, the glass dock doors opened, followed by the carriage doors. They boarded the carriage, which glided into motion after the doors closed, travelling in silence. As the carriage sped through the city of Ji Sia, District Yau’s capital, glimpses appeared of the thousands of people below navigating the narrow ground-level streets, illuminated by streetlamps and lanterns that were strung between buildings hundreds of metres high.


    The carriage shuddered, causing Keung look at Cheng. ‘Did we run over someone again?’


    ‘Don’t think so. People have gotten good at avoiding the rail when they feel it coming.’


    Keung nodded to himself as he settled back into his seat.


    The monorail glided into the heart of the underground world as it neared their destination: District Yu. It was the smallest but most affluent district of Kowloon, the Emperor’s personal domain, a perfect circle of prosperity. At its centre stood the Yu Tower, a thirty-story building reserved for the elite Kingmakers, the Yaozhi dynasty, and their throne.


    No other building in this district was permitted to exceed eight stories, a visual reminder of who held the power. Yu Tower, an architectural marvel inspired by ancient surface Zhongguo, featured sloping ceramic-tiled rooftops, raised pavilions, and horizontally sectioned walls. Emerald-shaded pillars adorned with golden dragon prints connected these sections, giving the tower an air of ancient majesty. Very few places in Kowloon featured this unusual style of architecture.


    Despite being the tallest building in the district, the Yu Tower was dwarfed by the towering structures of the surrounding districts. Yu had a disjointed look from the rest of Kowloon, with its perfect circular border and uniform terraces. The only physical connection between Yu and the outside world consisted of four King Rail tracks. Emerging straight from the shadows of Yu’s neighbouring buildings, these thin, white rails stretched high above the district from all four sides, soaring across the airspace until they disappeared into the docking bays of the tower at the district’s centre.


    The carriage soared high above the central district’s modest rooftops, granting Keung a rare bird’s-eye view. It felt like flying, a sensation he could only experience here with Yu’s low buildings, away from the chaos in the rest of Kowloon.


    Cheng and Keung’s bodies swayed from inertia as the carriage halted inside the mouth of the tower, some 15-stories high. The doors slid open and they both walked outside to the port, where Kingmakers were hailing and departing from other carriages.


    Cheng stretched and shook Keung’s hand. ‘Okay, sir. I’ll wait for the others in the changing rooms. Get back to General Denzhen and let him know how things went; he’ll want to know immediately.’


    Keung’s grip faltered at the mention of his father. He’d forgotten he still needed to inform him about Jian’s fate; the same Jian his father had once called brother. Breaking the news would be difficult.


    ‘Thank you, brother. I’ll join you soon,’ Keung said softly.


    They parted ways, Keung heading to the nearest elevator. The pristine, gleaming tiles and soft lights in the corridors of the Yu Tower were a stark contrast to the rest of Kowloon. Moreover, breathtaking murals depicting sacred scenes from the Book of Memory spilled off the ceiling and onto the walls, as if the artist responsible had thought the beauty too much to keep the art contained to a single surface.


    Busy officers walked by; the lower rank centurions wore plain blue shirts and baggy trousers with a red sash tied around their waist, while the officers strutted around with golden-striped trench coats identical to the one Keung and his team wore. As had been the case since his birth, he felt eyes following him. This came with being the son of the legendary Dragon, General Denzhen, and the nephew of the Emperor himself.


    Keung made it into one of the large training rooms, intending to cut through it to reach the elevators. Grain-paper walls, imposing jade emerald pillars, and ornate statues of dragons sat in the corner of the large dojo. A Kingmaker sergeant was instructing twenty centurions in advanced martial forms, all dressed in singlets and loose-fitting training pants. Keung padded around the perimeter of the dojo, aiming to avoid drawing attention. However, his presence as the Emperor’s nephew was hard to miss, and almost everyone’s gaze shifted towards him. Noticing the momentary lapse in concentration, the sergeant raised his voice and commanded the class, ‘Training is still in progress, and I am still here!’


    The class snapped back to their forms — horse stance, left fist, right fist, neutral stance, and then a round-house kick. The sound of fists whipping and the thick training clothes ruffling made Keung miss his simpler days as a centurion.


    At the other end of the training dojo, Keung reached a sliding paper door that led to the lift. He pressed the button to call it and a minute later, it rose to his level. Inside were two other Kingmakers. Keung found a space between them and turned to face the door as it closed. He could feel their gazes boring into the back of his head.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The lift rose and stopped once, quietly offloading the two Kingmakers before continuing towards the 25th floor, where Keung disembarked and made his way to his father’s chambers.


    The level containing the generals’ offices was empty and soulless. Even finding the generals here was a rarity as they were always out on business. Unlike the artistic expressions of the lower floors, this level was sterile and utilitarian in design, washed out by cool-white lights and bouncing off square marble tiles.


    Keung stood before the door to his father’s office before buzzing its ringer, a small circular button on the side of the frame. The crest of the Yaozhi family at its top edge reminded him that his existence was significant, as Kowloon would be nothing but millennia-old rubble without the Kings.


    There was a long thirty-second wait before the door slid open, beckoning Keung in.


    Inside, the wait made sense. General Denzhen stood with his back to the door, engrossed in the disarray of papers and hologram readers on his desk. Keung wondered how his father managed to maintain order amidst such chaos. Denzhen still wore his olive-green, baggy trench coat, reserved for generals, distinguished from the well-fitting Kingmaker coats by its dark red rather than golden-yellow arm stripes.


    On the right-hand wall of the small office were three weathered visitors’ chairs. Keung settled into one and it creaked gently under his weight. He sighed audibly to announce his presence.


    ‘Jian is dead,’ Keung revealed, his gaze distant, fixed on the wall.


    At this, Denzhen dropped something he was holding onto the table, spun around, and finally looked at Keung with wide eyes. However, the object tipped over and bounced on the floor. Keung glanced over at the noise and saw it was an ST-5 pistol, a relic from the past. Frowning, General Denzhen swooped to the floor to grab it and placed it once more on the table.


    ‘What happened? I thought you were following a cold trail?’


    ‘Wasn’t as cold as we thought. When Jian ran, Shing’s shot mortally wounded him. I only offered him mercy.’


    Understanding replaced Denzhen’s surprise, leaving only sympathy on his face. He approached Keung and sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.


    ‘I’m so sorry, son. I didn’t think he’d be found this quickly. Had I known, I would never have sent you. Would have gone myself or sent Captain Aiguo or maybe Shen — ’


    ‘It’s okay, Ba. I’m as capable as any of them.’


    ‘You misunderstand me; it isn’t a matter of capability. It just isn’t your burden to take on. Until now, I had imagined the Dragons would end up confronting him. Not my own son.’


    Keung turned to look at his father, who was gently shaking his head. He scanned his father’s features, taking in the sight of the man who’d raised and trained him for as long as he could remember. Denzhen’s curly hair and short beard had been a bit unkempt for the last few months, which coincided with the Kingmakers getting closer and closer to finding Jian. The scar on his cheek, a trophy from a war fought only by the elders many annui-cycles ago, seemed more prominent than usual.


    ‘I knew him and cared for him as much as anyone else; this is a burden we all share.’


    ‘Not true, Keung. You don’t have the hands of someone who takes lives. How many people have you been forced to shoot? And of those few, how many did you know personally? No, it’s not your burden to take, and damn me for not being careful and sending you anyway!’


    Denzhen let go of Keung’s shoulder and shot up from his seat. ‘I’m sorry, son.’


    Keung grappled with his father’s words. Although he found some solace in them, they reinforced why so few fellow Kingmakers ever attempted to befriend him. His father’s fierce protection had always been a comfort that Keung readily accepted without question. However, as he matured, he realised he had the autonomy to reject this overprotectiveness when it got excessive. Now, Keung questioned whether he should embrace his father’s consolation, or reject it.


    ‘Ah shit,’ Denzhen suddenly said to himself. He turned around, frowning. ‘Keung, do you know what it means to be General Jian’s executioner?’


    His words struck a chord in Keung, sending his gut into spasms. His father had realised the upcoming challenges before Keung himself— Keung hadn’t just killed a prolific Yang terrorist, but also a revered teacher who’d been a second father to many of his fellow Kingmakers.


    Denzhen pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Should’ve sent…’


    ‘Ba, what are you trying to say?’


    ‘What you did to Jian isn’t going to sit well with the other Kingmakers. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been me or the captain who ended him. But you’re young, Keung, so incredibly young. The love many have for Jian is as old as I am.’


    ‘Thank you for warning me.’ Keung’s face tensed in an effort to appear indifferent. His eyes remained fixed straight ahead, attempting to mask any hint of emotion. Yet the subtle tightening of muscles along his jaw and a faint frown betrayed his inner turmoil. His mind raced. Am I on the path to becoming every Kingmaker’s enemy?


    ‘Be careful son. Emotions run high while people mourn. They’ll be anxious to point the finger. I’ll do what I can to maintain discipline for the next few menses-cycles at least.’


    Keung shook his head. ‘No, don’t do anything. Nothing will happen to me; I don’t need that at all. If anyone has any grievances, I’m more than happy to talk to them face-to-face.’


    ‘Son —’


    ‘No, I have to go! I need to walk this off. Thank you, sir.’ Keung exited his father’s chambers as his dad looked on helplessly.


    ****


    In the dim, dank changing rooms on the lower floors of the Yu tower, Cheng stood alone before a cracked sink. He splashed cold water over his weary face, washing away the grime and exhaustion that clung to him like a shroud. The room, with its rows of mostly empty lockers, felt like a mausoleum, empty and devoid of life. Yet, it was a silence he craved.


    Cheng’s mind was haunted by the horrific events of this morning. Auditory flashbacks rang in his ear; they had stormed an apartment and discovered a nest of startled Yangs. Cheng vividly remembered the moment he, Keung and Yutai pointed their guns into the room and all three hand cannon sights met Jian’s face. He recalled seeing Keung’s shock as he grappled with who he was staring at. No one could have predicted such a turn of events.


    Returning to the moment, Cheng was terrified for Keung. His friend was about to enter a whole new world of struggle after killing Jian. Cheng’s position as Tribune afforded him the second-highest rank in the detachment, or the de facto leadership when Keung wasn’t around. He reminded himself that he had everything he needed to protect Keung from the others in the tower.


    As he waited by the sink, worry for Keung gnawing at his nerves, Ushi, Tao and Shing finally emerged from the shadows of the outside. Their presence filled the room, but it was incomplete. Cheng could hear the silent whispers between Ushi and Tao, the sound of Shing’s massive PAW12 rifle clattering against his back, but no one else. Yutai hadn’t appeared yet, and Lieutenant Keung, the one Cheng was truly concerned about, was also absent.


    Glancing back, with water trickling down his pale face, Cheng saw Prefect Shing taking a seat on the central bench of the changing room. As the group’s marksman, Shing’s post-mission routine remained unchanged; he disassembled his PAW12, then meticulously wiped each part with a microfibre cloth.


    Rubbing down the main barrel, Shing caught Cheng’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. ‘You good?’


    Cheng frowned, debating whether it was worth bringing up why Shing had injured Jian instead of killing him.


    It’s not worth it with him. He turned away.


    Prefects Tao and Ushi were in conversation by their lockers behind Shing. Ushi had removed his shirt, displaying his muscular frame. He always claimed his fast metabolism made him feel hot, necessitating frequent garment removal. But everyone knew the truth; he just loved showing off his impressive physique. His skin, a shade darker than others in the room due to his southern heritage, was marked with bruises and cuts. Cheng remembered that Tao and Ushi had been left to fend off the remaining Yangs after he, Yutai and Keung chased after Jian. Ushi’s battered body bore the marks of the fierce encounter.


    Tao, Ushi’s closest friend in the tower, had his curly hair tied up in a loose plait, a post-mission habit. His bruised face was grim as he spoke to Ushi, undoubtedly about the events of earlier today.


    Cheng watched Tao fiddle with his Dongist prayer beads around his neck, wondering what was taking Prefect Yutai so long.


    Probably somewhere in the tower, caught up in conversation.


    ‘Keung actually killed him. Big boy!’ Shing’s voice dripped with sarcasm and dark humour. The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at him. Only the running water of the sink prevented the room from descending into absolute silence. Shing’s face held the slightest hint of a smirk, yet Cheng remained silent.


    However, Ushi clearly didn’t hold the same reservations as he halted his quiet chat with Tao and turned toward Shing.


    ‘Could you please shut the fuck up.’ Ushi’s weary, scratchy voice conveyed his irritation.


    Yet Shing’s smirk only widened. ‘What are you crying about now?’


    ‘We all know what you did. You could have killed Jian instantly. One clean shot. But instead you wanted to play sadist and toy around with Keung. What if Jian managed to escape? You could’ve screwed everything, asshole,’ Ushi groused, his nostrils flaring as each word became louder than the last.


    ‘So? Jian still died, didn’t he?’


    All of a sudden, Tao chuckled. ‘Let’s all stop pretending like Shing missed on purpose and isn’t just covering up for his shit aim.’ Cheng watched Tao gently squeeze Ushi’s forearm as the two stared each other down.


    A chuckle briefly crossed Shing’s face and then his expression turned pensive. ‘Keung surprised me, actually. I was convinced he wouldn’t pull the trigger. Don’t know if I should laugh or cry.’


    Cheng’s mouth twisted as he turned and headed toward his locker. Crossing the room slowly, he mulled over Shing’s words.


    I also thought he wouldn’t kill Jian. Cheng opened his locker. All along, I was prepared to do it myself, if only to spare Keung the deed. Damn it, why didn’t I just shoot Jian before Keung had to?


    As Cheng unholstered his RS7 hand cannon from his hip and placed it inside his locker, he caught a glimpse of Keung standing by the doorway from the corner of his eye, as if he’d appeared out of nowhere. Cheng’s sudden movement caught everyone’s attention, prompting them to turn and notice Keung as well. The room fell silent, and the team paused—except for Shing, who continued wiping down his rifle.


    Lieutenant Keung nodded at them all.


    ‘Good work, brothers. After many cycles of hunting Jian, we’ve finally killed him. Today was tumultuous, but our teamwork brought us this swift and unexpected victory. You can go home and rest. That’s it I guess, dismissed.’


    Cheng raised his hand to get Keung’s attention before he turned on his heel. He walked over to Keung and spoke softly to indicate a private conversation, away from the others.


    ‘What did the general say? You okay, sir?’


    Keung nodded without looking Cheng in the eye, making him impossible to read.


    ‘Don’t worry about me, okay? Everything’s fine.’


    Cheng pursed his lips, unconvinced. ‘If you say so, sir.’


    Just when Keung turned to leave, he whirled back around, as if recalling something.


    ‘Uh, brothers, one more thing. Jian’s passing will be a difficult time for many. I’m sure news has spread that we were the ones behind it, so just watch your backs and stay calm. Especially you, Ushi. Please don’t rip anyone’s head off if they say something you don’t like. My father’s office is open to you all if you want to report any inappropriate behaviour.’


    Keung nodded at Cheng one last time, then walked out.


    ****


    Back in his private chambers on the highest floors of the royal palace, Keung lay on the side of his bed and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep…


    Beep. beep. beep. beep.


    After what seemed like mere minutes, Keung pried his eyes open, rubbing them in surprise as he saw his sleeping quarters had darkened with the onset of Kowloon’s dimming.


    Must have been knocked out longer than I thought.


    His holocommunicator, which was beside his grand double bed, was still beeping with an incoming call. With a weary stretch, he picked it up and fastened it around his wrist before answering.


    ‘Hello?’


    ‘Is this Keung?’ A man’s voice sounded down the line. Stern, almost military-like.


    Frowning, Keung pushed himself up to a seated position. ‘Who’s this? This is a private channel, identify yours -’


    ‘You’re going to burn in the darkest depths of hell for what you did to Jian. The man who saved Kowloon is rotting on a crucifix because of you. Make sure your doors are locked tonight because I’m going to -’


    Keung hung up, sweating. He could feel the venom dripping from every word. Prank calls from anonymous Kingmakers wasn’t uncommon for Keung, but this one had rattled him to the core. He wondered if there really were Kingmakers in the tower who were planning on hurting him.


    He sat in his grand room in silence, cloaked in darkness and warmth from the heaters his father always made sure to turn on after dark.


    The holographic display on the table at the far end of his chamber told him it was an hour past the dimming, when another side of Kowloon would be waking. A criminal side that blended in among the nightlife. The clubs roared louder, the strip clubs lifted their curtains, drugs and arms dealers openly traded, mercenaries walked door to door extorting and bribing others, and illegal modification shops switched on the neon lights above their front doors: Now welcoming all customers!


    There was an unspoken truce between Kowloon’s post-dimming life and the authorities who roamed during the daytime work-cycles: Stay within your corner of Kowloon, and we won’t interfere with your business.


    That went both ways.


    Sitting on his bed, Keung wondered what Jian’s corpse looked like right now. He imagined thousands passing by the crucifix at this very moment. Some people wouldn’t recognise the lifeless face of the once great man who’d saved Kowloon during the District Rebellions 25 annui-cycles ago, while others would shake their heads in second-hand shame at Jian’s pitiful end.


    Keung’s stomach twisted as images of Jian rotting on the cross arose, his lifeless gaze asking him, ‘Is this what I deserve?’


    A headache began to throb. Suddenly Keung found himself missing the comforting presence of his father. Rising from his bed, he walked to his study desk, where his trench coat was draped over the back of his chair. He slipped into the coat, its golden stripes accentuating the arms and side skirts, and then proceeded to his personal armoury located next to his bedroom. Bathed in the room’s dim blue light, his collection of weapons was displayed on the wall. Rifles, light machine guns, energy pistols and other gadgets lined the sound-proofed walls of the room. He grabbed his dependable RS7 hand cannon and left his room.


    As Keung stood inside the elevator, staring at the row of buttons, he imagined what his father might say to console him. Would he remind him of his accomplishments? Rising to the highest rank attainable before becoming a Dragon; a lieutenant? Would he speak of the ancient Yaozhi blood that coursed through his veins, reiterating the vital role his ancestors had played in founding Kowloon? Or would he simply acknowledge Keung’s humanity and reassure him that it was okay to feel the way he did? That they both could suffer Jian’s pain together?


    Then Keung’s constant companion, the voice of self-doubt, spoke up again. As it always did.


    That’s it. Go run to Daddy. Let him reassure you. Why take control of the situation yourself? You’re a Yaozhi. Others do shit for you. Even if it has to be poor old Ba. No wonder everyone respects you.


    It’s bitter sarcasm stung him where it hurt. He stared at the button which had the character “25” engraved in it — his father’s office. He was about to press it when in an abrupt change of heart, his finger paused just before touching the button.


    No, not this time. I have a choice in this. I’m going to do Jian right. His finger moved to the button for level 15; the King Rail.


    The late hour had vacated most Kingmakers from the port. Hailing a carriage within its stillness, he entered directions to return to Ji Sia city on a console, where he’d killed Jian. It arrived and he hopped on.


    As the carriage sped towards District Yau, Keung paced restlessly, pondering his next steps. All his plans defied Yau’s laws, particularly because Jian was Yang, but Keung counted on his position as Emperor Puyin’s only nephew would protect him from severe repercussions. He was aware of the delicate balance of power between the Ji Sia’s and the Kingmakers, a highly tumultuous relationship to say the least. Yet he kept reminding himself, It’s just one body. It’s just one body.


    If he could retrieve Jian’s corpse from his crucifix, a speedy cremation would be the only option, despite it being illegal across the underworld of Kowloon.


    Minutes later, the King Rail glided into the familiar docking port from hours earlier and he found himself yearning for his boon companion, Cheng. Kingmakers seldom walked the streets of Kowloon alone. Yet Keung knew asking for help would be a waste of time. Cheng’s protective nature would never allow him to take on such an audacious mission.


    Keung slipped through the unremarkable door of the docking port and onto the bustling street. The activity hadn’t waned since he was last here a couple hours ago, even as the dimming fell up here on the 90th level. At these heights, the dimming usually cleared out the streets. The fact that people were still milling about meant those with time to spare had left their homes to search for the spectacle of Jian’s crucifix. The gossip mill was clearly working overtime.


    Right now, he needed to find out where the crucifix was. Keung knew Jian’s body would be displayed prominently, a symbol of victory against the fearsome Yangs. Tapping his wrist projector, Keung accessed the Kowlooni Network, a monolithic digital web that connected everyone to news, entertainment, business — absolutely everything could be found here.


    Keung didn’t need to search for long as the front page featured the breaking news of Jian’s death. And the headline revealed his location.


    The Luen siblings announce Jian’s crucifixion in the Gujin Bazaar.


    Knowing the name of his destination, Keung pulled up the local area map, a hologram that hovered above his wrist. The orange holographic display was three-dimensional, rendering the local map around him. Fine white grid lines travelling in the three dimensions and thick blue lines indicated the physical shape of the interior streets. Each street glowed red to varying degrees, simulating foot traffic.


    Keung noticed passersby turn, their faces agape at the advanced technology. The intricate map displayed the complex network of interior streets, stairways, vents, and alleys that teemed with life. Consulting the search bar at the top of the hologram, Keung typed in the four Yue characters - Gu, Jin, Ba, and Za. The map panned to an area close to Keung, revealing Jian’s location.


    Even after his death, I’m still hunting for him.


    Keung tapped on the area on the hologram and a small information box materialised in the air:


    Gujin Complex, Yau.


    Established in 1524.


    Under Luen jurisdiction.


    Keung selected his destination, and a red line appeared, snaking through the passageways and showing the quickest route to the Gujin complex. Despite never having been to this bazaar, he knew what to roughly expect.Plunging deeper into the urban maze, Keung followed the crimson line on the hologram, resolved to honour Jian’s memory - even at the cost of defying the order he had vowed to uphold.


    He zipped down narrow stairwells, almost tripping over the tiny yet deep steps. He descended footbridges and rolled awkwardly onto lower terraces. He slid down angled roofs, finding scraped elbows and bruised shins at its end; his balcony leaps, dangerously close to disaster, had his heart racing as he crossed wide gaps high above bustling alleyways. Squeezing through a narrow crack in the pavement, he tumbled into a darkened barber shop, his landing a loud clatter that foretold an unexpected morning clean-up for its owner. He opened a window with unsteady hands and scrambled down the rickety fire escape, each step groaning under the strain of the loosely bolted metal structure hanging high in the air. Keung even zip-lined down using a damp towel hanging from a clothesline, but the moisture made his grip slippery, sending him crashing onto a lower rooftop.


    Keung stood up and rubbed his elbow as he overcame a limp towards the glow of the bazaar.


    Navigating Kowloon was like taming a beast. Every person who grew up on the streets knew how to saddle it, rear it, and make it run. People rarely needed to stray far from home, so local shortcuts like loose panels, hidden manholes, and crowded conditions were familiar and easily navigated.


    But to some who had lived a sheltered life, Kowloon remained wild and unpredictable, a monster revealing its teeth when you stared down its maw. Sometimes Keung didn’t know how the beast of Kowloon saw him: as an experienced master or a timid child waiting to be knocked down and swallowed whole.


    The bazaar was pulsating with light and sound, filled with crowds numbering in the tens of thousands that spread from one end of the bazaar to the other. Massive LED billboards dangling from the ceiling, plastered with Cantonese characters, adorned the head space of the countless stalls below. Neon signboards, flashing with vertical Chinese characters, ascended the walls of the shops, climbing ever upward along the sides of the bustling bazaar. The shops provided a chaotic mix of services: noodle stands sat beside beauty salons, while shoe stores brushed shoulders with vendors of hunting knives, and high-end fashion boutiques jostled for space alongside fast-food joints as if commerce was constantly playing tug of war against itself. Neon lights in vivid blues, purples, reds, and greens lit up the Main Street of the bazaar, leaving no corner untouched. Lanterns, billboards, and signposts also valiantly announced their presence.Keung’s head began to pound from the music and the dazzle of the neon lights flashing everywhere. Street performers with wild face tattoos busked nearby, while others played instruments and twirled with abandon. He watched popular influencers from the Kowlooni Network interviewing randoms in the hope of producing entertaining content for their virtual audiences. The air buzzed with a blend of laughter, conversations, and the steady bass of party music from the upper balconies.


    Grand bazaars were a common feature in Kowloon; vibrant melting pots where diverse cultures from various regions within a district converged. Nearly every district boasted one. In these places, people indulged in their baser instincts, losing themselves in a whirlwind of moral laxity and indignation in the form of extravagant spending and consumption, drugs, sex, and violence. Yet Denzhen always discouraged Keung from spending his downtime in such areas.


    Despite his headache, Keung fought back a smile at the infectious excitement of the atmosphere.


    Shing and Yutai would love it here.As he navigated the single, wide street of the bustling bazaar, Keung’s eyes scanned for Jian’s crucifix, knowing it would be displayed for all to see. Hundreds of shoulders pushed him back every second step he took, the sheer liveliness of the place even managed to obscure his presence. There were almost no eyes on him which felt so alien he glanced at his Kingmaker trench coat to check he was still wearing it.


    But just as a Kingmaker was obscured in the bazaar, so was everything else. Keung looked upward, searching for the hanging crucifix amidst the sensory overload. However, no single detail stood out from the surrounding chaos. Everything mirrored the disorder around it. The multilevel balconies to his left and right overwhelmed Keung’s sense of scale. Even the balconies’ railings, burdened by the weight of leaning spectators, appeared to teeter over the edge, adding to the anxiety-inducing atmosphere. A couple of Luen gangsters swaggered past Keung wearing thick, bright-orange sleeveless jackets and dark cargo pants. He managed to overhear some of their words.


    ‘…that bloody Jian…’


    ‘…glad he’s down…’


    ‘…a lashing in hell for every soul he took…’


    Lost in thought, Keung bumped face-first into a hulking man, who turned around and glared at him.


    ‘Aye, you fuckin’ blind?’ the man groused. He was bulky enough to look like a bouncer, but wore flashy clothes as if he was a patron of a club instead: a trendy, high-collared leather jacket with hexagonal seams, and baggy pants with a ribbed design that cuffed just above the calf.


    However, as soon as the large man’s eyes darted to Keung’s peaked cap with its gold stripe, his demeanour shifted to one of deference and he slid out of his way. Keung continued on his quest, unimpeded.


    After several minutes, Keung spotted a colossal analogue clock suspended from the ceiling, its neon hands casting an eerie glow. Beneath it, there was a crucifix bathed in the beams of two massive spotlights. The clock was too high and Keung couldn’t tell who or what was there as he was constantly being shoved by people.


    I need a closer look.


    With a burst of energy, he dashed to the bazaar’s edge, weaving through the crowd. Spotting a protruding rod and a brick ledge, he jumped, seized the rod, and pulled himself up. Keung scaled the wall in a flash, wedging his feet into the cracks, and climbed until he reached the railing of the first floor balcony.


    Hanging off this new vantage point, Keung stood on the edge of the balcony and turned around, both hands on the rail behind him. His clutching fingers felt the brush of many people walking past on . He strained to see the crucifix more clearly. The spotlights helped, but the figure on the cross remained unidentifiable, gently swaying in the airflow.


    Keung pressed his eyes closed in anticipation of the impending intrusion. With a faint beep, his Eye came to life. As he opened his eyes again, an aqua-blue filter washed over his vision, yellow lines outlining the geometric shapes around him. People, railings, and signs all stood out in stark contrast against the backdrop of the bazaar.


    The Eye scanned the surroundings, occasionally detecting Cantonese characters from signs and advertisements and offering translation options for various dialects from distant districts. Keung seldom activated his implant as the fusion of man and machine left him feeling unnerved. Its existence was always a reminder of the foreign presence lurking just beneath the surface. It felt wrong. Whether it was a placebo-induced feeling from Keung’s moral principles, or a real physical feeling of metal and wire beneath his skin, he didn’t know.


    Amidst the unease that accompanied the Eye’s activation, Keung focused on the cross. The yellow outline of the clock was soon joined by the image of the crucifix. Slowly, he zoomed in, desperate for any sign of Jian.


    But the cross was empty.


    It can’t be!


    A wave of shock and dismay crashed over Keung as he realised someone had already taken Jian down.


    The first sign of rot, Keung reminded himself, he’s meant to be there until he rots! Did the Yang take him? Am I the first to notice?


    The bazaar’s vibrant allure now felt suffocating as he struggled to comprehend the implications of his discovery.


    Keung deactivated his Eye as his mind churned with questions about who’d dared to take Jian’s corpse — their galls matching the Emperor’s own nephew.