Before Jiang Lan could react, the gravel and earth beneath his feet collapsed in one piece.
"Little Guga—!"
"Doro—!"
Hand in hand, boy and soul fell straight through the opening.
Elsewhere, in the inner city of Slaughter City.
The buildings along the street leaned at odd angles. Years of grime had stained the stone walls dark red, and the air reeked of rust and sickly-sweet rot. Now and then, a scream rose from an alley, only to be cut short. Heavy breathing and low chewing sounds echoed in its wake.
In a narrow alley deep in the inner city, Tang San leaned against a wall, his chest heaving.
Two bodies lay before him. One was missing an arm; the other had a caved-in chest. Blood spread beneath them and seeped into the cracks between the paving stones. Shock and disbelief still marked their faces, as though neither had understood how he could have lost to a boy in his teens.
Tang San looked down at his hands. Someone else's blood coated his knuckles and dripped between his fingers.
The third, Tang San counted silently.
After several months in Slaughter City, he had lost count of how many people he had killed.
At first, every kill had sickened him. He would hide in a corner and vomit until his stomach burned.
Now he was used to it.
He would not have survived otherwise.
Slaughter City's rule was simple: only the living got to keep going.
"Little San."
A low, hoarse voice came from the alley entrance.
Tang San looked up. A tall figure emerged from the shadows, wrapped in a tattered black cloak. His hair hung wild, his beard had gone untrimmed for ages, but his eyes still shone fiercely in the dim light.
Tang Hao.
His father.
A few