CHAPTER VI — Trash Livelihood? Nocturnal Terror
3071 Words
The door to Unit 301, Building 7, Tianfu Gardens, sagged on warped hinges. Cheap plywood, bloated by Jiangcheng’s humid breath, peeled at the edges like scabs. A faded, half-detached paper character for “Fortune” fluttered raggedly in stray drafts, its rustle a mocking whisper in the gloom.
Inside, the air hung thick and stale. Less than twenty square meters choked with relics: a scarred wooden table, a single iron cot bearing a hard plank mattress, cardboard boxes and empty plastic bottles stacked like forgotten monuments in corners. The lone window, glass smeared with decades of greasy grime, grudgingly admitted the afternoon’s pallid light. The scent was a suffocating blend: ancient dust, the sour tang of wall mold, and a faint, metallic undercurrent of rust and machine oil—the olfactory signature of this “home,” mingling with the pervasive decay of the slum outside.
Shen Qingwu groped her way inside, carefully placing the mud-smeared exile bag on the room’s only relatively clean wooden stool. Her sightless eyes swept the oppressive grey space, each breath tentative, as if fearing to disturb the dust motes dancing in the meager light. Gone was the Shen mansion’s opulent expanse; here, even the air felt constricting, a tangible weight.
Qin Hao offered no words. He turned, vanished briefly, returning with a battered electric kettle. He placed it on the peeling table. The water’s angry hiss screamed in the cramped silence. From beneath the table, he retrieved two grimy white porcelain mugs—one chipped at the rim. He rinsed the chipped mug perfunctorily, pinched a few shriveled, unremarkable dark-green tea stems (Shattered Star Wild Stems) from a dusty bag, dropped them in, poured boiling water. The stems unfurled sluggishly, their color dull, lifeless, like waterlogged dead leaves. A whisper of bitter green fragrance, almost imperceptible, struggled against the room’s miasma.
Guided by the kettle’s scream and the ghost of tea scent, Qingwu felt her way to the table, pulled out the creaking wooden stool, and sat. Her hands rested on the cold, scarred surface, fingertips brushing deep gouges and cigarette burns.
“This… is where you live?” Her voice, too loud in the smallness, held bewilderment and hollow resignation. The lurid bruise on her temple, stark even in the gloom, pulsed like an unhealed brand.
Qin Hao didn’t answer. He pinched the chipped mug’s rim, slid the steaming, mud-hued tea towards her. The gesture held no warmth, merely function. He picked up the other, intact mug, walked silently to the rickety rattan chair by the window. It groaned under his weight. He unfolded the newspaper detailing the Shen scandal, his gaze settling on the print with unnerving calm.
Qingwu’s hand fumbled across the table, finding the warm curve of the mug. She lifted it, the chipped edge scraping her fingertip. She lowered her head, blew softly across the surface, took a tentative sip. The liquid was brutally bitter, gritty with earth, worse than the dregs discarded at Shen Manor. But it was hot. It traced a path down her throat, a feeble warmth spreading, thawing her icy fingers and frayed nerves. She sipped slowly, tasting the unspeakable bitterness of her fate.
*BANG! BANG! BANG!*
Violent, impatient hammering shook the door! The warped wood shrieked in protest!
“Open up! DEAF? Trash!” A shrill, imperious female voice slammed against the wood.
Qingwu jolted! Tea sloshed, scalding her hand. She flinched, head snapping blindly towards the noise, voice laced with panic: “…Who?”
Qin Hao remained in the rattan chair, reading the paper, eyelids unflinching, as if the racket were distant static.
*CLICK!* A key turned. The lock hadn’t been secured.
*THUD!*
The cheap door flew inward, crashing against the wall! Rusted hinges shrieked.
Framed in the doorway stood Shen Qianqian. Seventeen or eighteen, clad in designer hoodie and skin-tight jeans, feet in limited-edition sneakers, hair tipped with garish purple streaks (a clumsy mimicry of Shen Qingxue’s signature style). Her youthful face was contorted with undisguised arrogance and contempt. Shen Qingxue’s younger sister.
Qianqian crossed her arms, her gaze a cold scanner sweeping the squalid, garbage-dump room. It settled on Qingwu—cradling the cheap, chipped mug, clad in soiled clothes, temple bruised—and Qin Hao, leaning in his chair.
Her red lips curled in a sneer, dripping malice like venom. “Well? Your dog kennel? Fitting! Blind trash paired with garbage! Perfect! The stench… ugh… worse than Father’s Tibetan Mastiff kennels! How can humans live here?” She flapped a hand theatrically before her nose, shooing imaginary pollution.
Qingwu’s knuckles whitened on the mug, trembling. Qianqian’s poison lashed her, stripping away the mug’s feeble warmth, leaving only icy shame. Her mouth opened, soundless.
Qianqian’s eyes flickered with cruel satisfaction over Qingwu’s pallor. She sashayed in, stiletto heels clicking sharply on the bare concrete. She kicked an empty water bottle aside. Like a queen surveying dung, she stopped at the table, drawn to the scandalous newspaper.
“Ha! Still reading? The papers were too kind! Your ‘perfect pairing’ deserves worse photos!” She jabbed a polished fingernail at the enlarged photo of Qingwu’s bruise, scratching the paper. “Sister! Look at you! Debasing yourself for this mountain scavenger? Enjoying exile? Grateful I found you a ‘protector’?”
She spat the word “protector” like acid.
“Why are you here?” Qingwu’s voice finally rasped out, thick with suppressed fury and shame.
“Why?” Qianqian arched a plucked brow, righteous entitlement radiating. She thrust a finger inches from Qingwu’s nose. “Money! Sister’s company hit a snag. Qingxue’s drowning in PR hell! Lucky you—just pocketed Grandpa’s five-million ‘w***e fee’ and that ‘treatment’ cash! Hand it over! ‘Lend’ some to your dear sister! Better than your trash husband wasting it on scrap!”
The demand was brazen, as if Qingwu’s money were Shen property, hers for the taking.
Qingwu’s hand shook violently. That money… bought with her shame and freedom! For Grandpa’s life! Qianqian’s gall was breathtaking! “The money… is for Grandpa’s treatment… I don’t have it!”
“Liar!” Qianqian’s face twisted. Her palm slammed the table! The chipped mug jumped, muddy tea splattering the stained surface!
“b***h! Stop playing poor! I know! Grandpa’s life was saved by that trash! You took the w***e money! Pocketed it and now deny it? Refuse?” She screamed, spittle flying. “Listen! No money today? I’ll have this dump smashed! Let the neighbors see! The Shen blind cast-off and her scrap-collecting husband living the high life!”
She whirled, hands on hips, a bantam rooster squaring off, venom aimed squarely at Qin Hao in his chair:
“And you! Trash! Playing profound? Reading trash papers? Pauper! Garbage! Dirt-grubbing peasant! Scammed five million selling your wife! Not enough? Cough it up! Pay your sister-in-law her due! Or wait for everyone to know Qin Hao hides behind his woman’s skirts?!”
The vitriol hung frozen in the air, each word a poisoned icicle.
Qingwu swayed, gripping the table’s edge, the bruise on her temple throbbing like a live wire.
Then—
Qin Hao moved.
He slowly folded the newspaper, methodical. He looked up. His gaze bypassed the spitting fury of Qianqian, landing instead on Qingwu—pale, trembling, braced against the table, the bruise on her temple pulsing with agitated blood.
Precisely, on the bruise.
Qingwu’s senses churned—rage, shame, terror, helplessness—a molten storm within. Blind to Qianqian’s sneer, she felt the verbal whips lashing her soul. Yet, deeper, a vaster, colder fury—chthonic, glacial—emanated from the rattan chair, saturating the cramped space.
*ROAR!—*
Qin Hao’s eyes frosted over, colder than polar ice caps. An invisible pressure—a sepulchral stillness—erupted, flooding the room like liquid nitrogen.
The brass ring on his finger pulsed. Deep within its band, the sigil representing “Primordial Earth’s Burden” (Ancestral Dragon Power · Unmoving Foundation)—a scale etched with cosmic mountains—ignited! Not a glow, but a pinprick of absolute darkness, a black hole’s event horizon condensed!
*HUMMMMMMMM—!!!*
A soundless, crushing vibration—like tectonic plates grinding—emanated from the ring! An unseen field—the “Ancestral Dragon’s Earth-Domain”—snapped into existence, cloaking Qin Hao!
Within this domain—
Qingwu’s perception sharpened violently! The chaotic space snapped into brutal order!
Her boiling mind’s eye reflected a soul-shattering vision:
A boundless expanse—a continent forged from primordial earth and sky—materialized! At its heart, a dragon whose scales bore the constellations and mountain ranges of eternity slowly raised its head! Its vertical pupils, devoid of mercy, fixed not on the shrieking Qianqian—
But on the void behind her!
A wisp of intangible malice—a parasitic curse born of Qianqian’s venom—coiled like a venomous serpent! It slithered along a hidden thread of ill-intent, seeking to burrow into Qingwu’s soul!
“Guh—!” Qianqian choked mid-scream. The sudden, bone-deep cold strangled her voice. Terror—primal, paralyzing—froze her sneer. Her mouth hung open, soundless. Every hair stood on end. Icy dread doused her fury, leaving only petrified fear. She stood rigid, face draining from rage-red to corpse-white, body trembling uncontrollably!
The curse-thread aimed at Qingwu froze, shattered under the dragon’s gaze!
*c***k!—*
The chipped mug slipped from Qingwu’s shaking hand, shattered on the concrete floor. Tea and rotten leaves splattered, staining her already soiled pants.
The shattering porcelain shattered the frozen silence.
Qianqian flinched, momentarily freed from terror’s grip. But meeting Qin Hao’s gaze—void of anger, only the absolute indifference reserved for roadkill—her heart seized anew. That wasn’t a “trash” gaze. It was a demon’s.
Her bravado vanished. Raw terror rooted her. She stumbled back, heel catching the threshold, nearly falling.
“Money.” Qin Hao’s voice cut the air, low, flat, devoid of inflection, each syllable ice on ice. “For healing. Not lent.”
His gaze rested on Qianqian, slumped against the doorframe, assessing useless refuse. “Done?”
“N-No… done…” Qianqian stammered, ghost-pale, scrambling backwards, tripping over the threshold in her haste. She fled, high heels clattering in panicked retreat, vanishing down the dark hall as if demons pursued her.
*CLATTER! CRASH!—*
Qianqian’s frantic flight down the unlit stairs echoed—high heels skittering on concrete, followed by the sound of overturned beer bottles shattering—a discordant funeral march in the stairwell.
Back in Unit 301, silence reigned.
The floor was a battlefield: shards of porcelain swimming in murky tea, the air thick with cheap leaf bitterness and lingering frost.
Qingwu stood amidst the wreckage, feet in the tea-stain. She was rigid, a puppet with severed strings. The crushing pressure had vanished with Qin Hao, but its glacial residue numbed her limbs. Qianqian’s venomous words, like poisoned needles, pierced her heart. Shame, terror, helplessness—a toxic brew churned in her chest. Her slight frame trembled uncontrollably.
Qin Hao had retrieved his newspaper, back in the rattan chair, the storm seemingly never happened.
Long moments passed.
“…S-Sorry…” Qingwu whispered, head bowed, voice fractured, barely audible. An apology for the broken mug? For dragging him into her shame? Or for her very existence? “I… I need to buy things…” She groped for the table’s edge, voice hoarse. She needed air, escape, even if only into the slum’s cold embrace. She couldn’t stay in this prison Qianqian had made fouler, couldn’t face the man who’d revealed his monstrous edge.
She felt her way, carefully avoiding shards and puddles, shuffling towards the door. Her steps were unsteady, a leaf in a gale. At the threshold, she paused, hesitating.
No words came. She pushed the ill-fitting door open, her figure dissolving into the hallway’s gloom.
Night, thick as tar, drowned Tianfu Gardens. Wind carried the sour reek of rotting garbage and distant factory fumes through grimy alleys, swirling dust and paper scraps.
Qingwu clutched a cheap plastic shopping bag—inside, the cheapest noodles and a bag of salt bought with her last coins. Her other hand clenched the key—to this “home,” this cage of shame.
She moved slowly. Blindness turned the slum’s maze into a perilous journey. Each step was a calculated risk. Flickering streetlights offered patchy illumination; corners plunged into absolute darkness. Walls, steps, dumped debris—unseen predators waiting to trip her.
As she neared Building 7, threading the final alley—a narrow, shadowed gully flanked by overflowing dumpsters, its light especially feeble—
*CRASH!*
A burst of raucous laughter and the shatter of a beer bottle against brick ripped the silence! Foul waves of alcohol and cheap tobacco assaulted her!
“Oi! Lookie here! A lost little blind mouse?”
“Hah! Face like a doll! Better than that skank Red at the hair joint!”
“Heh, walkin’ all shaky… lost, kitten? Big brothers help you home?”
“Skinny little waist… clothes kinda clean? Not from round here, huh? Runaway rich girl?”
“Who cares! Blind’s better! Can’t see what’s comin’!”
Three figures, reeking of booze and smoke, lurched from the shadows. Leering faces, eyes glazed with l**t and malice, closed in like hyenas scenting blood.
“Go away! Don’t touch me!” Terror seized Qingwu’s throat! Icy dread flooded her veins! She felt their foul heat closing in! She hugged the cheap bag like a shield, stumbling back. The bruise on her temple throbbed painfully!
“Heh! Run?” A yellow-haired thug, quicker than the drunks, lunged! A tattooed, grimy hand shot out, grabbing for her slender waist!
His companions roared with laughter, arms spread to block her escape!
In the darkness, Qingwu sensed the greasy palm-wind, the stench closing in!
The filthy hand was inches from her clothes—
*WHOOSH!—*
A shadow blurred at the alley’s mouth!
Movement too fast for sight! No afterimage!
A large, calloused hand—marked by labor—shot out!
*SNAP!—*
Five fingers clamped like industrial vices onto the thug’s wrist bone!
*CRUNCH!—*
A sickening grind of splintering bone! A guttural scream tore the night!
Qin Hao’s grip was adamantium. He crushed.
The thug’s arm bones shattered like chalk! Agony bulged his eyes! His face purpled, then greyed. He collapsed, a boneless sack, his scream choked into a wet gurgle!
It happened in a flash!
The other two thugs froze, drunken grins dying. Terror sobered them instantly. Ice speared their spines!
“Who the f**k?!”
“You’re DEAD!!!”
Instinct kicked in. Roaring, they reached into jackets! Steel flashed! Two foot-long folding machetes gleamed like viper fangs in the dim light! No hesitation! Driven by feral rage, they lunged—a pincer attack! One blade slashed for Qin Hao’s throat! The other stabbed for his heart! Savage, practiced, lethal!
Blades sliced air!
Killing intent enveloped Qin Hao!
Throat-lock! Heart-piercer! No escape!
Qingwu sensed only the icy net of murderous aura tightening around her! She heard the blades’ shriek, the thugs’ animal snarls! Her soul-perceived world drowned in nauseating death-stench! Qin Hao trapped!
As the twin blades struck—
Qin Hao’s right hand, still gripping the shattered wrist, didn’t flinch. Only the brass ring on his left hand’s root finger—the sigil for “Annihilating Fury” (Pojun Power · Primordial Conquest)—
*SHIIING!—*
Ignited!
A blood-red light, drenched in endless s*******r, erupted from the ring! A volcanic blast of hellfire!
Simultaneously—
Qin Hao’s left hand snapped up! Lightning-fast!
He curled only his thumb, index, and middle fingers!
As if clutching three invisible needles forged from primordial killing intent!
Three Fingers as Sword!
*WHOOSH!—*
Silent death!
He struck after the blades, yet faster than time! Intercepting the lethal arcs! Precise taps!
*TING!—*
First finger! Struck the throat-slashing blade’s spine, seven inches from the hilt! The steel machete bent like tin foil under a hydraulic press! Immense force surged up the wielder’s arm! Shoulder joint exploded with a sickening c***k! The arm twisted impossibly! The blade spun away, embedding deep in a rusty dumpster with a heavy THUNK!
*THUD!—*
Second finger! The annihilating force focused like a laser! Speared the wrist bone seam of the heart-stabbing thug! Like a white-hot poker through butter!
*CRUNCH!—* Wrist bones powdered! The force detonated! Shattered ribs! Ruptured organs! The thug flew backwards like a ragdoll hit by a truck! Blood fountained from his mouth! He slammed into a wire fence piled with oil drums and trash! *BOOM!* Unconscious instantly!
The s*******r took less than half a second!
Qingwu gagged on the sudden, overwhelming stench of blood and razor-sharp killing aura! Her senses, battered by the crimson psychic blast, saw only an ocean of clotted gore! A scarlet dragon, wreathed in the souls of a billion battle-dead, opened its apocalypse eyes in that sea! A silent roar that could shatter stars!
Her legs gave way. She collapsed, knees hitting cold, filthy concrete, clutching the cheap bag and keys, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, teeth chattering!
Silence.
The alley drowned in stillness. Only the yellow-haired thug’s choked gurgles and the distant scuttling of rats in dumpsters broke the quiet.
Qin Hao released the shattered wrist. The thug slumped, a twitching heap. Qin Hao hadn’t moved an inch. The lethal dance might have been swatting flies.
His gaze shifted, past the fallen thugs, landing on Qingwu—kneeling, shivering, a terrified fawn. The blood-red dragon-shadow in his obsidian pupils had sunk back into unfathomable depths, leaving only glacial calm.
The dim light at the alley’s mouth outlined fresh blood spatter and dust on his worn jacket. He raised his left arm, the unbloodied hand brushing his sleeve cuff—a casual flick, dismissing insignificant grime. The crimson spots blurred into the shadows.
Then, he bent down.
- Writer
