West City Rat Alley

Autumn wind swept dead leaves around the street corner, slapping against his patched trouser legs.

He instinctively tucked the dry, shrunken bundle tighter under his arm, lowered his head, and melted into the bustling crowd like an unremarkable drop of water.

Only after crossing two streets did the prickling sensation of being watched finally fade.

Chen Ping slowed his pace, his fingers lightly tracing the thin sheet of paper against his chest through the coarse fabric.

This wasn't just freedom—it was the ticket he'd bought with everything he owned.

The west end of Jinguang City was the poor folk's territory, and "Rat Alley" was its festering sore.

Filthy water pooled everywhere, the air thick with a stench of rancid slop mixed with open latrines.

The alley twisted and narrowed, easy to lose your way in the maze of ramshackle extensions.

"This is it. Take it or leave it."

The Rental Agency clerk, a sharp-faced, scrawny middle-aged man, pinched his nose with his sleeve in disgust, pointing at a dilapidated little flat-roofed house before them.

Half the courtyard wall had collapsed, patched with rotten planks; the roof tiles were sparse as a mangy scalp.

"This area's rough, but it's cheap. Try the main street, and this price won't even get you a latrine."

The clerk sized up Chen Ping's shabby clothes, impatience dripping from his voice. "Three hundred coppers a month, one month deposit, three months rent upfront. No credit."

Chen Ping nodded meekly, fished out a string of coins he'd counted beforehand from his sleeve, tallied them three times, and handed them over.

"Alright, alright, you broke bastard."

The clerk snatched the coins, tossed down a rusty key, and turned to leave, as if staying a moment longer might infect him with poverty.

Chen Ping watched the agent disappear, then pushed open the creaky, battered wooden door.

Inside, the light was dim, dust a finger thick, with tattered cobwebs hanging in the corners.

But he let out a long breath, his tense shoulders finally sagging.

Shabby as it was, this was his turf now.

He set down his bundle, rolled up his sleeves, and started cleaning. The well water was biting cold, jolting him awake.

After scrubbing the grime from under the bed, Chen Ping pulled out a dagger from his chest and carefully pried up a blue brick beneath the bed frame.

He dug another half-foot down, wrapped his last few silver coins and the Shattered Stone Palm manual in oilcloth, buried them, tamped the dirt flat, replaced the brick, and dusted it with loose ash.

He didn't stop there.

He plucked a strand of his own hair, licked it, and stuck it in the least noticeable corner of the door crack.

Then he sprinkled a fine layer of incense ash in the window's sliding groove.

If anyone pushed the door or opened the window while he was out, those traces would be disturbed.

This was a survival instinct honed over years at Lin Manor—now, in the mixed bag of Rat Alley, it was a lifeline.

By the time he finished, dusk was falling. His stomach growled on cue.

Chen Ping grabbed a battered basket and headed to the nearby market.

What he found made him frown.

The rice shop's price board had changed again: coarse rice was up to eight coppers a catty, a full two coppers more than last month.

White flour was a luxury now, only for the gentry.

"Times like these, silver's worth less and less."

Standing before the rice shop, Chen Ping's mental abacus clicked away.

The little money he had left had to last until the Imperial Military Examination, with some set aside to grease official palms. Every copper had to be stretched.

In the end, he bought only five catties of coarse rice and two of the cheapest pickled radishes from the veggie stall.

As he reached his little courtyard, a thick stench of raw meat hit his nose.

The next yard's door was wide open. A burly man with a butcher's knife tucked at his waist, his face all meat and menace, squatted at his threshold, slurping soup from a big bowl.

When he saw Chen Ping, the man wiped his greasy mouth, his triangular eyes narrowing with sharp scrutiny.

"New here?"

The man stood, his tall, brawny frame blocking the doorway completely, half a bowl of leftover soup in hand.

"I'm Butcher Zhang from this block. We'll be seeing each other. This bowl of offal soup is a welcome gift."

The soup had a few blackish chunks of pig lung floating in it, reeking of unwashed innards.

Chen Ping shrank back, his spine instinctively hunching, forcing a fawning smile as he took the bowl with trembling hands:

"Th-thanks, Brother Zhang. I'm Chen, a failed scholar. Hope you'll look out for me."

He coughed twice, pretending the wind had caught him, playing the frail, sickly loser.

The wariness in Butcher Zhang's eyes mostly faded, replaced by contempt.

"A scholar? Useless as tits on a boar. In Rat Alley, knowing your letters won't put meat on the table."

He snorted, waved dismissively, and went back inside. "Sleep with one eye open. Don't let someone lift your drawers while you're out."

Chen Ping thanked the man profusely as he carried the soup into the house. The moment the door closed behind him, the fawning cowardice on his face vanished, replaced by eyes as cold and sharp as a blade.

He poured the bowl of offal soup into the slop bucket. Trust no one—he wouldn't dare drink that.

Night fell, but Rat Alley was far from quiet.

The shouts and scuffles from the butcher's house next door, the drunken curses in the distance, and the wailing of an infant from somewhere unknown wove together into a cacophony of street noise.

Chen Ping sat cross-legged on the hard wooden bed, palms and soles facing upward.

The clamor outside entered his ears but did not reach his heart.

With each breath, a warm current rose from his Dantian, flowing slowly through his Meridians.

The gentle, profound inner energy of Longevity of Pine and Crane turned into a pair of tender hands, smoothing away the fatigue in his Meridians.

This place was far less quiet than the servant quarters at Lin Manor, and foul odors drifted in through the window from time to time, yet Chen Ping's mind had never been more open and clear.

Before, he cultivated to survive—to keep from being beaten to death.

Now, he cultivated for himself.

He sat like that for an entire shichen.

When he opened his eyes again, a sharp glint flashed through them before fading into obscurity.

He called up his panel and watched the proficiency bar for Longevity of Pine and Crane tick up by one point. Chen Ping curled the corner of his mouth in satisfaction.

As long as it kept growing, there was still hope for the future.

He set a clay pot on the Kitchen Stove, grabbed a handful of coarse rice, and boiled a pot of thin porridge.

No oil or meat—just finely chopped pickled vegetables.

Chen Ping carried a chipped coarse-ware bowl, squatted on the doorstep, and drank it mouthful by mouthful.

The coarse rice scraped his throat, and the pickles were painfully salty, but he ate with extraordinary relish.

Full and satisfied, he splashed cold water on his face.

He didn't undress, just lay down on the bed fully clothed. His right hand slipped under the pillow and closed around the cold, hard handle of the dagger.

His body was exhausted, but his mind remained taut.

His dreams came in fragments. The slightest rustle in the alley could jolt him from shallow sleep into full alertness.

That was the law of survival in the slums, a habit he'd honed over the past three years.

Half-asleep, the image of the red-paper notice he'd seen at the alley entrance floated through his mind.

It was the registration announcement for the Imperial Military Examination.

The deadline was the beginning of next month, and at the very bottom, a single line:

"Registration fee: fifty taels of silver."

Fifty taels.

That was nearly double his entire net worth.

He rolled off the bed, straightened his clothes, and patted the release papers and letter of recommendation tucked inside his robe.

He pushed open the door and strode toward the government office.