The Phoenix of the Slums

The night air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and scorched rubber as Tianming and Lu Qingshan disappeared down a side alley, leaving behind a warehouse littered with unconscious thugs and the broken pride of Bai Yu. The authorities wouldn't arrive for another half hour—more than enough time for them to vanish like ghosts.

They reached a nondescript building tucked between two burnt-out auto shops. Qingshan tapped a rhythm on the steel door—three short, two long. A click echoed from inside, and the metal creaked open to reveal a young woman with sharp eyes and a laptop in her hands.

"You're late," she said.

"You're lucky we came at all, Xiaodie," Qingshan replied. "The Lotus Clan nearly boxed us in."

Xiaodie rolled her eyes but stepped aside to let them in. "Then you better see this. I cracked into Bai Yu's encrypted terminal before his people could wipe it."

Inside, the small room flickered with blue light from multiple monitors. Maps, data streams, and surveillance feeds covered the walls. Xiaodie’s setup was a hidden nerve center—small, but powerful.

Tianming leaned in. "What did you find?"

Xiaodie tapped the keyboard. "He wasn’t acting alone. Bai Yu was just a regional handler. The real orders came from someone higher—someone inside the so-called 'Iron Circle.'"

Qingshan’s expression turned grim. "The Iron Circle? I thought they dissolved years ago."

"They didn’t," Xiaodie said. "They just changed their name. Now they call themselves the Nine Talons."

Tianming’s brow furrowed. That name… it tugged at something buried deep in his memory, like a fragment from a forgotten nightmare.

"And there's more," Xiaodie added. "They’re moving something through the city tomorrow. A transport disguised as a logistics truck. Whatever’s in it—Bai Yu considered it a priority above his own safety."

Tianming stood straight. His voice was calm, but fire burned in his eyes.

"Then we intercept it."

The next morning, rain poured over Denghai’s cracked rooftops and flickering neon signs. On the west end of the city, a white transport truck rolled out of a warehouse district near the port, flanked by two matte-black SUVs. Their license plates were untraceable. Their windows, bulletproof.

From a nearby rooftop, Tianming adjusted the scope on a compact monocular.

"Right on schedule," he said into the earpiece.

"Three guards on the roof of the lead car," Xiaodie’s voice crackled in his ear. "All ex-military. I’ve jammed the GPS and radio chatter. You’ve got five minutes before they realize."

Qingshan stood beside him, dressed in dark gray tactical wear, a collapsible baton in his hands. "We take the guards first. Then crack open that truck and see what’s inside."

Tianming nodded.

The plan unfolded in silence and shadow. As the truck approached an underpass, Xiaodie triggered a localized blackout—every streetlight and camera within two blocks went dark.

Tianming and Qingshan dropped from the rooftop like wraiths.

Tianming landed on the hood of the lead SUV, sending a shockwave through the chassis. The driver panicked and hit the brakes, but before he could shout, Tianming smashed his fist through the windshield and yanked him out with one hand.

A guard emerged from the roof hatch—but Qingshan was already there, spinning into a flying kick that sent the man tumbling off the car onto the wet pavement.

Another guard lunged from the passenger door with a pistol. Tianming weaved right, let the bullet fly past his ribs, then stepped in and slammed an elbow into the man's throat. He folded like a sheet of paper.

More men spilled from the second SUV, forming a line with batons and tasers.

Tianming didn't hesitate. He charged, feinted low, then pivoted and slammed his heel into the first man's knee—snapping it inward. As the second attacker came in, Tianming ducked, grabbed his belt, and flipped him overhead into the side of the truck with a loud bang.

Qingshan handled the others with swift, surgical efficiency. One man reached for his gun, but Qingshan trapped his wrist and slammed him to the ground, locking his arm in a vice hold until bones cracked.

When the last guard hit the ground groaning, Tianming moved to the truck.

"Xiaodie, unlock it."

"On it," her voice buzzed in his ear.

Click.

The doors swung open.

Inside wasn’t gold, weapons, or drugs.

It was a coffin.

Cold metal. Black. Sealed with the emblem of the Nine Talons engraved across the lid.

Tianming stepped forward, staring at the symbol. He traced a finger along it, and suddenly, his mind flashed.

A memory.

A child, alone in a dark cell. Men in robes. The Nine Talons sigil branded on a wall. Whispers of a prophecy. Of a weapon born from bloodlines.

Tianming gasped and stumbled back.

Qingshan caught him. "What is it?"

"I’ve seen this before," Tianming said, eyes wide. "When I was a child. Before… before everything. They were the ones who took me."

The silence was heavy.

Qingshan said nothing, but his grip on Tianming’s shoulder tightened.

"This changes everything," he muttered.

Tianming looked back at the coffin.

"No," he said quietly. "It reveals everything."