The Phoenix of the Slums

Tianming stood beneath the jagged cliffs of Mount Kuixing, the icy sea wind whipping his coat as he stared down at the industrial port below. Towering cranes groaned like ancient beasts, lifting containers onto the rusted ship marked Hai Feng 9, the same vessel tied to the Black Falcon remnants. Hidden behind a cluster of freight crates, Tianming’s breath steadied into cold mist as he surveyed the deck through a pair of stolen binoculars.
The container labeled “Organic Fertilizer A-15” wasn’t ordinary. Two armed men stood guard in front of it, faces half-covered with tactical masks. Their movements were rigid, professional—far beyond dock security.
Lu Qingshan’s words rang in Tianming’s mind: “Project Yanluo was a myth whispered among our ranks. If it still exists… no one’s safe.”
Beneath his coat, Tianming had concealed the black silk scroll from the Old Tong Sect. He had studied it the night before, memorizing the key acupuncture points that, when struck with precision, could trigger bursts of adrenaline, reflex amplification, and rapid blood flow reversal to cleanse internal toxins. These techniques weren’t just healing—they were battlefield miracles, born from forgotten medicine.
He circled around the perimeter of the shipyard. Every step closer to the ship heightened his senses. Near a stack of oil drums, he spotted movement—a girl, no older than fifteen, slipping silently across the shadowed path, clutching a small box. She darted behind a crane’s support pillar, but not before her eyes met his.
Something about her expression chilled him. Fear, but not of being caught. It was the kind of fear only someone who’d seen death could wear.
He crept closer and called out softly, “Hey. You don’t belong here. What’s in the box?”
She flinched but didn’t run. “You shouldn’t be here either. They’ll kill you.”
“I’ve already been marked. Answer the question.”
She hesitated, then opened the lid just an inch. Tianming glimpsed vials—glowing faintly with a blue-green luminescence. Liquid strands shifted inside like jellyfish in a current.
“It’s blood,” she said. “But not human.”
“What do you mean not human?”
“They call it—‘Ancestor Strain.’”
Tianming’s eyes narrowed. The pieces clicked together. Madam Yurei wasn’t just trafficking in bioweapons. She was carrying genetic material from something ancient. Something possibly tied to the very prehistoric civilization Lu Qingshan had warned about.
“I stole it,” she whispered, glancing toward the guards. “They killed my brother for refusing to work on the extraction process. He was a cleaner. Not even a scientist.”
Before Tianming could speak, gunfire shattered the silence. Bullets ricocheted off the metal containers around them. The girl screamed and dropped, curling around the box.
Tianming lunged, grabbing her arm and pulling her into cover. He glanced up and saw three figures in matte black suits moving toward them.
He drew the twin tactical knives he’d strapped to his thighs. One motion, and he darted out from cover, blades glinting. The first attacker raised his rifle, but Tianming was faster—he dove low, slicing across the back of the man’s knees, sending him crashing to the ground.
The second fighter came from above, leaping from a cargo container. Tianming rolled away just as a baton cracked against the metal where his skull had been. He kicked off the ground and drove a blade up into the man’s side, yanking it free as blood sprayed.
The third lunged forward with brutal speed, fists flying. This one was trained. Every blow aimed for vital points. Tianming barely parried, his arm going numb from ablocked strike. He was losing ground.
Then he remembered the scroll’s first acupuncture technique. Reaching beneath his collarbone, he jabbed his fingertip into a precise nerve. Instantly, warmth spread through his chest. Time slowed. His pupils narrowed.
The next punch came—Tianming ducked, grabbed the man’s wrist mid-air, twisted, and sent him crashing into a steel drum with a sickening crack.
The girl stared at Tianming, eyes wide. “You’re not normal.”
“No,” he said. “But neither is what they’re hiding here.”
He dragged the unconscious body toward cover, then turned to her. “What’s your name?”
“Xiaoqing,” she said. “I was part of the cleanup crew. Until they made me something else. I know where they’re taking the rest of the samples.”
“Where?”
“There’s a lab underneath Mount Youling. Not on any map. Only accessible by sea through a tunnel network. They call it—The Cradle.”
Tianming’s heartbeat spiked. The Cradle. That name had been buried in his father’s final notes—alongside a warning written in shaky ink: “Don’t wake what sleeps beneath.”
Suddenly, his earpiece crackled. Lu Qingshan’s voice came through, static breaking every other word.
“Tianming—abandon the port. They’re—”
The signal cut off.
A low rumble rose in the distance.
Then came the blinding light.
The ship Hai Feng 9 erupted into flames, the explosion tossing steel containers like toys. The fire lit up the sky as alarms blared and the port descended into chaos.
Tianming shielded Xiaoqing with his body as debris rained around them. When the blast faded, he turned back and saw the container labeled “Fertilizer A-15” completely gone—obliterated.
Or... purposely erased.
He stood slowly. His next destination was clear.
The Cradle awaited.