The Eastern City Slums of Weisteburg were called Ash Lane by the locals.
The name was fitting.
Whether day or night, the entire area was always shrouded in a dusty gray.
By day, it was because the soot from factory chimneys dyed the sky a leaden color.
By night, it was because streetlights didn’t exist at all—only the occasional candlelight from a broken window, too dim to illuminate the potholed stone road beneath your feet, just enough to barely make out whether there was a puddle three steps ahead.
There was no fog tonight, which was rare good weather in Ash Lane.
Lai’en Kelin walked through an alley so narrow it almost brushed his shoulders.
His pace was fast but not panicked, his worn leather boots making short, sharp sounds on the slick stone slabs.
The houses on either side of the alley were crammed together like sardines.
Two- and three-story rickety buildings leaned against each other, their walls covered in coal dust and water stains.
In some places, large patches of lime plaster had peeled away, revealing the dark red bricks beneath.
Most of the second-floor windows were nailed shut with wooden planks, and the few that still showed light had glass too dirty to see through.
Lai’en turned a corner, and the alley widened a little.
On his right was a waist-high wall.
At its base, a pool of black, murky water gave off an indescribable sour stench.
A scrawny cat darted over the top of the wall, shot him a vicious glare, and disappeared into the darkness.
He quickened his pace.
Voices came from ahead.
Several men squatted in a doorway, huddled around an oil lamp on the ground, talking in low tones.
They wore coarse patched clothes, their faces etched with fatigue and numbness.
One of them clutched a half-bottle of cheap ale, and several empty bottles sat at their feet.
The bottle passed from hand to hand as they took occasional swigs.
Lai’en walked past them with his head down, acting as if he saw nothing.
They did the same.
One of Ash Lane’s unspoken rules was not to talk to strangers, especially at night.
He turned into an even narrower path, the walls so close they almost touched his arms.
At the end of the path stood a half-open wooden door with a crooked iron sign hanging from the frame.
The characters on the sign had long rusted beyond recognition, but regulars knew this place as Broken Horn, a small tavern that had been open in Ash Lane for over twenty years—or, more accurately, a shabby haunt that offered cheap alcohol and fleeting warmth to the bottom rung.
Lai’en pushed the door open and went inside.
The tavern was much warmer inside, but also a lot more suffocating.
The air was thick with smoke from pipes, the reek of cheap alcohol, and an undefined musty smell that blended into a unique aroma only Ash Lane could provide.
Seven or eight rough wooden tables were scattered across the small space, most of them occupied.
A half-broken gas lamp hung on the wall, casting a dim yellow light that made everyone’s face look as bloodless as wax figures.
Behind the bar stood a burly middle-aged woman.
She had a broad jaw and arms thick enough to easily snap a grown man’s neck.
People called her Delia.
She was the tavern’s owner, bartender, bouncer, and arbitrator all in one.
Lai’en walked up to the bar and carefully pulled three copper coins from his pocket, placing them on the counter.
“Same as usual,” he said.
Delia gave him a look, then pulled an oil paper package from under the counter and slid it toward him.
Inside were two hard, dry black bread rolls and a small piece of smoked fish.
Not much of a meal, but at this hour, getting anything besides hot food was already hard.
“Why so late today?”
Delia’s voice was unique, as if ruined by years of smoke.
Lai’en didn’t answer her question.
He picked up the package, weighed it in his hand, and asked instead,
“Coleman looking for me?”
Delia nodded and tilted her chin toward the back of the tavern.
Without another word, Lai’en grabbed the package and headed to the rear.
The back door of the tavern led to a wooden staircase descending downward.
The stairs were narrow and creaked with every step, the handrail thick with dust.
Lai’en went down the stairs and pushed open the half-closed wooden door at the bottom.
A basement appeared before him.
The basement wasn’t large—just enough space for two card tables.
The ceiling was so low that a person of average height had to stoop slightly.
The walls were exposed brick and stone, with moisture seeping from the mortar and a layer of gray-green mold growing in the corners.
A kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling, its wick crackling, casting flickering, dim light that made the room seem to pulse between brightness and shadow.
Several men were sitting around a wooden table playing cards.
All of them were from the Gray Rat Gang.
The Gray Rat Gang held a certain degree of control over Ash Lane, dominating most of the black market and contraband trade.
Their men were spread throughout every corner of the lane, dealing in smuggling, debt collection, and the sale of goods of dubious origin.
The gang’s leader was Coleman, a shrewd and ruthless figure with considerable influence in Ash Lane’s underworld.
Four or five men sat at the table.
Some had cigarettes dangling from their mouths, and a small pile of copper and silver coins sat in front of one of them.
The bone dominoes slapped against the table, mixed with crude laughter and curses.
Lai’en recognized all of them—they were regular faces in the gang.
“Yo, Lai’en’s here.”
A man with a green birthmark on his face looked up and grinned, revealing yellow teeth stained by tobacco.
“Long time no see, kid.”
Another, fatter man chimed in,
“Want to play a round? Luck’s on my side tonight.”
Lai’en ignored them.
He scanned the basement from the doorway but didn’t find the man he was looking for.
“Where’s Coleman?”
The card players exchanged glances.
A scarred man with a heavy smell of alcohol on his breath let out a loud belch and said with a chuckle,
“The boss is meeting a big shot tonight. He doesn’t have time—”
Before he could finish, the man next to him, who was still somewhat sober, kicked the stool leg out from under him.
The drunkard swayed and nearly fell, his belch caught in his throat.
He shut his mouth.
The kicker shot the drunk a warning look, then reached under the table and pulled out an object wrapped in coarse cloth.
He tossed it to Lai’en.
Lai’en caught it.
The object wasn’t big, but it was heavy.
He hefted it, guessing it was some kind of metal item, irregularly shaped, with sharp edges that could be felt through the coarse cloth.
Lai’en didn’t bother to check it further; he tucked the bundle under his arm and headed out.
“Take care, Lai’en!”
came the drunk’s slurred voice from behind, followed by a dull thud and a yelp of pain—probably another kick.
After Lai’en left the tavern, he had only taken a dozen steps when he realized he was being followed.
It wasn’t anything obvious—just an instinct, a faint feeling that footsteps were trailing him.
Lai’en stayed calm.
Getting tailed while walking the streets at night in Ash Lane was as common as stepping in dog shit.
He quickened his pace and headed straight for the most complex part of the lane.
Sure enough, the footsteps behind him grew quicker.
The other party seemed to realize that if they let Lai’en slip into that labyrinthine old neighborhood, they’d never catch him.
A rapid series of footsteps came from behind, growing closer and louder.
More than one person.
Lai’en turned a corner, then suddenly stopped.
He pressed his back against the cold brick wall and held his breath.
The footsteps drew near.
The first person had just burst around the corner when Lai’en kicked out, his boot landing solidly on the man’s abdomen.
The man grunted, doubled over, clutching his stomach.
His face twisted in pain, mouth open but unable to make a sound—clearly out of the fight for the moment.
Several more followed.
They weren’t alarmed to see their comrade ambushed.
They each pulled out their own weapons.
One held a rusty short knife, another gripped a metal-wrapped club, and someone else drew a rope with an iron hook tied to the end.
An assortment of makeshift arms like a ragtag militia’s display.
Lai’en glanced at the leader in the dim light and recognized him.
It was a small-time boss from the Sharp Hook Gang, named Leo.
The Sharp Hook Gang was another Ash Lane faction, small in scale, surviving mostly by extorting money from porters and prostitutes.
They’d always had friction with the Gray Rat Gang over territory and business.
These guys tailing him now were probably trying to sabotage the Gray Rat Gang’s operations and annoy them.
Lai’en didn’t want to waste time.
He was still thinking about finishing his errand and getting back to sleep.
“I’m not with the Gray Rats. You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said bluntly.
Leo stepped forward and grinned.
“I know who you are… Lai’en, the little errand boy for the Gray Rats,”
Leo said, slapping the metal-wrapped club against his palm with a dull thud.
“You must be carrying something valuable. Hand it over nicely.”
Lai’en sighed.
“I’m just a runner. What valuable stuff would I have?”
He spread his hands.
“And if you rob me, aren’t you afraid Coleman will start a war with you?”
“A war?”
Leo laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the narrow alley with unbridled arrogance.
“From a soft egg like you who doesn’t even dare hold a knife? If Coleman really valued you, would he have you running around alone every day like a stray dog? Enough talk. Hand over the money!”
Lai’en was silent for two seconds.
What else could he do?
What happened next didn’t need detailed description.
Lai’en had been scrounging the streets of Ash Lane for years.
Fighting was as routine to him as eating or drinking.
He was lean and didn’t have the weight advantage, but he had his own style: quick reflexes, accurate strikes, and always hitting the most vulnerable spots.
The sides of the knees, the ribs, the inside of the elbows—hitting these areas could instantly incapacitate a grown man without killing him.
The members of the Sharp Hook Gang, relying on their numbers, rushed him all at once.
Lai’en sidestepped the first knife slash, grabbed the man’s wrist, and slammed it against the wall.
The short knife clattered to the ground.
The second man swung his club from the side.
Lai’en ducked, then kicked him in the side of the knee.
The man’s leg buckled, and he dropped to the ground.
The third, fourth…
The scene was chaotic, but the outcome was never in doubt.
Leo was the last to fall.
Lai’en kicked him behind the knee, sending him sprawling forward.
His face slammed into the wet stone pavement with a dull thud.
He struggled to get up, but Lai’en stepped on the hand that held the club.
“I told you,”
Lai’en said, looking down at him.
“I’m not with the Gray Rats. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
He released his foot and turned to walk away.
Behind him came Leo’s grinding curses, but no one chased after him.
Lai’en walked for a long time, almost across the entire Ash Lane.
At the edge of Ash Lane was the boundary of the Port Area, where the sea could be seen.
The buildings here were sparser than in Ash Lane, all uniform shipyards and warehouses.
Lai’en walked along the coast for a while longer until he finally saw the outline of the docks.
Several wooden piers stretched from the embankment into the pitch-black sea.
Along the sides of the piers, various sizes of fishing boats and cargo ships were moored.
Most of the boats had their lights off, sitting quietly on the water.
Only the farthest ship still had a dim hurricane lamp burning, like a half-closed eye in the thick fog.
Lai’en pulled the coarse cloth bundle from inside his clothes.
By the light of the distant lamp, he checked the characters written on the wrapping to confirm it was right.
Then he walked to the end of the pier, found the fishing boat with the right mark, and tossed the bundle onto it.
That done, Lai’en clapped his hands and turned back.
The return trip was even harder than the journey there.
Fatigue crept up on him like a rising tide, seeping into every limb.
Each step made his calves ache and swell.
By the time Lai’en reached the front of his cheap rented room in Ash Lane, the sky was already turning pale.
The eastern horizon showed a fish-belly white.
The gray morning light filtered through the lingering mist, gradually pulling the outlines of Ash Lane out of the darkness.
In the distance, factory chimneys began to spew their first wisps of black smoke, and somewhere the low rumble of a steam engine starting up could be heard.
The rent was less than two silver coins a week, cheap enough to be a steal, but the conditions were just that.
Lai’en pulled out his key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
The room was tiny—so small that if he stretched out his arms, he could almost touch both walls at the same time.
Against one wall was a narrow wooden bed with a thin cotton quilt that had several patches.
Across from it was a wooden cabinet missing half its door, stuffed with a few changes of clothes.
That was it.
Lai’en closed the door, walked over to the bed, and sat down.
He took out the oil paper package from inside his clothes, opened it, and picked up a black bread roll, taking a bite.
The bread was hard as a board.
He had to struggle to tear off a small piece, chewing it slowly.
The smoked fish was good, salty and fragrant with a hint of smoke—but it was only palm-sized, and it was gone in two or three bites.
He ate slowly, thoroughly chewing every mouthful before swallowing.
Running all night on an empty stomach and then wolfing down dry, hard food would upset his stomach.
After eating, Lai’en crumpled the oil paper into a ball and tossed it into a corner.
He took off his outer coat, draped it over the edge of the bed, and flopped backward onto the wooden bed.
The board was hard, pressing into his back, but for someone who had been running the streets all night, being able to lie down was a blessing.
He pulled the thin quilt over himself and closed his eyes.
Sleepiness surged in like a tide, warm and heavy, carrying a sense of comfort.
Lai’en felt his consciousness slowly dissolve, the aching in his body fading.
The distant factory whistle, the yowling of stray cats downstairs, the muffled voices of neighbors—all these sounds grew distant and faint, like stones sinking to the bottom of the water, blurrier and blurrier.
Just as his consciousness was about to sink completely into the darkness—
He stood up and strode out with big steps.